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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615940">Flower and the Songstress</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattle/pseuds/Rattle'>Rattle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Basically Communist Elves, Chaotic Good, Chekhov’s Armoury, Consentacles, Developing Relationship, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support, Empathy, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Fluff and Smut, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Interspecies Romance, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, Mild Dom/Sub Dynamics, Mild Xenophilia, Miscarriage, Multi, Mystery, Orphans, Overcoming Trauma, PTSD, Pansexual Character, Past Abuse, Plant sex, Plot Twists, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Psychoactive Drugs, Romance, Scars, Size Kink, Some Humor, Strong Female Characters, Threesome - F/M/M, Unreliable Narrator, almost every vanilla smut tag imaginable goes here, for part one; but the rest is, honestly it’s a bunch of wholesome even when it gets kinky, references to violence, these dorks are thirsty and adore each other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:15:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>245,141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615940</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattle/pseuds/Rattle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Girl meets boy, boy is sweet, and comatose, and has tentacles, and the tentacles are also very affectionate, and it might be happening in a dream, but might not. And maybe perfect communist utopias do exist, or maybe everyone is just on drugs all the time... Hey, is that an all-encompassing plot unfolding in the background? Eh, who cares! Have a happy and fulfilling relationship between very nice people, with some mysteries and light angst on the side. </p><p>//Chapter specific tags in the end notes, in case you need them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. P.I Eve of Our Disaster//The Sleeper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “I have thus been saved and given food, shelter and a place to recover, for which I thank God Almighty in all His mercy. I pray He bestows upon me further guidance in such matters as interpreting His will towards the green creatures. Mayhaps, He wants my assistance in changing their heathen ways and helping them see His light. If so, I shall work tirelessly to ensure His will be done.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Herein and further: excerpt from “Account of the Green Heathens From Across the Ocean” by John the Traveler </em>
</p><p>When it came to nagging her into ascending the stage, Mahri was a champion. Sometimes, in moments like these, it felt like the girl's turned into a lamprey.</p><p>“Not today, Mahri.”</p><p>“Yes, today!”</p><p>“But why? I’ll sing for you at the bathhouse later.”</p><p>“First of all, because I like it! Second, because you’re great! Lastly, because they all want to listen to you sing! Look at them!”</p><p>She looked around. No one was paying any attention to the empty stage. Most of the locals were either conversing, or drinking, or canoodling, or an elaborate combination of all three.</p><p>Most of them, she knew only the faces of. But they were all perfectly friendly, as far as she was aware. Not one would heckle her. She still felt terrified. She always felt terrified.</p><p>No one could have predicted this. She found herself so far from home, so far from Mother Superior’s whip and Priory Father's low-minded gaze. Yet further from her own birth mother, long gone now. For two years, separated from her old life by an ocean, she dwelled under low unfamiliar skies, beneath a sullen mountain range. The biggest, most cavernous mountain rose right above the lovely town of Rheske, and within it sleepers lay. The sleepers...</p><p>“Come on, just the one song. Just one teeny-weeny wittwe song!”</p><p>Sighing, she mumbled, “Let me guess, the one about owls.”</p><p>“Guess again! The owl song’s for children.”</p><p>“Mahri, you’re sixteen.”</p><p>“I’m a grown woman!”</p><p>The sleepers. All but one of them has awoken come spring, all but one’s returned to their spouses and families, yet he alone remained, still fast asleep, in the cavern illuminated only by glowing moss that cast its mysterious reddish light upon the surface of the stone bath that was his bed. His whole body, save his face, submerged in the waters, and from their murky depths, twisted elanthie reeds rising to support his weight, to give and to take of him. They’ve stuck like leeches to veins, on his long legs and between the sinewy muscles on his arms, his bulging shoulders and his neck, and slowly rising chest, and even wormed their way under the loincloth - the only clothing he had on - as they did, to sustain and feed the sleepers. His eyes moved ceaselessly behind the heavy lids, and his muscles flexed slightly under his light green skin indicating that he was still dreaming…</p><p>“You look distracted,” Mahri said, tilting her head. “Why are you so distracted?</p><p>Just then, Shyle barged in. “She was at the caverns with us.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? Anyone yell at you? ‘Cause they do that sometimes. Just, “Blaaaaawrggggh!” Right out. When they wake up. They’re so-o-o weird. Anyway, about my song...”</p><p>She remained silent, not listening, recalling the conversation.</p><p>“There must be someone waiting for him. Why isn’t he waking?” she asked Drifeo, the local Mother Superior, whom they called the High Priestess, and who was, unlike the one she’s known and feared before, a kindly and gentle old woman.</p><p>“I do not know for certain,” the High Priestess said. “This hasn’t happened for decades. Mayhaps he hasn’t yet fulfilled his purpose in the Dream. Do not worry, child. And do not rush. He shall awaken in time.”</p><p>She couldn’t help but worry, and feel sad: for him or for something else - that she did not know.</p><p>The thickest elanthie stalk clung to his navel, and so he was as such, a babe inside a mother’s belly, and his mother was the Mountain Mother, and wouldn’t let him go.</p><p>The feeling wouldn’t leave her, yet she couldn’t interpret it properly...</p><p>“Come on, it will be fun. Please, can you do the one about that traveler?”</p><p>“John the Traveler?”</p><p>“That’s the one!”</p><p>Why did Mahri even care? John the Traveler was a human. Sure, the melody was catchy. But she thought that idiotic song was garbage. She’d seen his actual travel notes, and they were insipid and dismissive of the locals, while the song somehow did not allude to a single thing from these notes and it's ending differed greatly from reality. She wondered if she could do better. What would she write if she could write about <em> them </em>, and where would she start?</p><p>The Priory Father thought he was punishing her by sending her across the ocean when she has spurned his impertinent son’s lustful advances. He, as most humans, hated and feared the local folk they called the aldamaari, for the humans could neither conquer nor intimidate them. In the past when they would discover some new peoples, they would do both, along with imposing their faith and their wretched ways.</p><p>Hold on, who would read this? Humans would kill her for even thinking this, and the aldamaari knew what they were.</p><p>They were different. They weren’t “underdeveloped” or barbaric, they had devices and weapons and magics unknown to man, and they were strong and broad and tall in stature. <em> “Finest physical specimens'' was an understatement, John. </em> They lived long lives and could cure any disease. What humans didn’t know is that they were also kind and hospitable, all of them, as their faith didn’t call for them to spread it and take over as locusts swarms spread across the fields, and as their lust for knowledge and fertility of their lands allowed them to live in peace and abundance. They read and studied and wrote and worked tirelessly, and dreamed and wielded powerful magics, and even their youngest girls had a lot of useful skills, unlike human women. The poor human women that all remained in lands of her birth…</p><p>“Are you having one of those moments again?” Mahri asked, pursing her lips.</p><p>“She’s having one of those moments again,” agreed Shyle.</p><p>“I’m just. Ruminating. Do you think I could compose my own song someday?”</p><p>So to send a lone young novice as a missionary was no punishment for her. She has never in her life felt so welcomed. As she was the shortest and smallest and the least knowledgeable of them, the aldamaari treated her as an adoptive child, to be cared for and cherished, and she has never, despite the Mandate, even tried to preach her people’s religion to them. The Priory Father did not know that she had lost her own faith years ago. She has committed, and was committed to, her heresy. She’d rather die than go back.</p><p>“Of course! What would it be about?”</p><p>“I don’t really know. All of you?”</p><p>
  <em> Or me with all of you? </em>
</p><p>When she arrived they bestowed upon her a stone cottage to live in - more space than she has ever had to herself, and a study in their Temple’s library. The Temple sisters taught her their language every day, until she tentatively started to speak, scared at first that they would laugh at her, but they never did. In time, and sooner than expected, she has abandoned her native tongue entirely. She no longer kept notes or a journal in it. It would only come to her in those dreary, wistful dreams when she would see herself back at the convent on the other continent across the ocean, and would then wake in tears and feel immense relief to not be there.</p><p>“You can do better. ‘Cause that’d be boring. We’re boring.”</p><p>“And this song you’re asking me to sing, and may I point out, sing publicly, isn’t boring? It’s about a guy who came here and cried for a long time and ate pears.” And wrote vile little scribbles about all of you, while yearning to go back home.</p><p>“And then he stopped crying and stayed and was so happy! Just like you!”</p><p>Then he went back, and humans killed him. Publicly. But Mahri did not need to know that. None of them needed to know that, or read those notes. They did not kill each other. They did not even have the word for “execution”.</p><p>She liked it here from the very first day. Initially she would help at the Temple - to cook, clean and tidy up the library. Then they taught her to use the printing press, and wondrous sewing machines set in motion with foot pedals, and how to weave, and she chose the latter. Work was never monotone, as one of the weavers would always sit in front of others with a book and read out loud. She learned even as she worked, and it was something new every single day. She would still assist at the Temple on every first and third and sixth day of the week.</p><p>“Come o-o-on, ple-e-e-e-ease?”</p><p>Shyle said, “She’s just going to pester you until you do this.”</p><p>
  <em> So true. </em>
</p><p>“Fine, I’ll do it.” She stood up. “I’m doing it.”</p><p>“Hurray! I love you. So. Much.”</p><p>“But then I’m not singing at the bathhouse for you tonight!”</p><p>“No fair!”</p><p>They taught her their ways, too, and now she couldn’t imagine ever going back to her old ones.</p><p>They liked to be clean. They would never apply perfumes and powders to cover body odor, they would only use them after washing. She would most certainly not be dismissive of that fact if she were to write it down the way John once did. Or of how men couldn’t grow beards, and what little hair they all had on their bodies, they would remove by covering it with a special ointment and then scraping it off with seashells until it'd stop growing altogether, and soon, she started doing it too. They brushed their teeth with rough powder made of pumice-stone and herbs, and would chew on fragrant and meaty lamia leaves so their teeth were always strong and healthy and their breath was never foul. They had a sewerage and flowing water in every home and daily they would perform ablutions with flowery soaps. The Temple women did it in the bathhouse she now loved so dearly, the crown jewel of which was a giant marble pool that had hot water flowing through it day and night. It took her awhile to feel comfortable undressing in front of other women but they rid her of such insecurities by repeatedly telling her there is nothing to be ashamed of and teaching by example. Nevertheless, it was hard to shake off two decades of shame and dogma, probably the hardest thing she had to learn to do.</p><p>Indeed, they felt no shame and would openly discuss their bodies and their needs.</p><p>She found soon enough that women would not shut themselves when they had their moon blood, but would instead use thick cotton swabs dipped in numbing medicine made from opy milk, and take strengthening teas to continue working and going about their day. That, she started doing too after a while, although at first she had her doubts about inserting foreign objects inside. Again, the women told her it’s nothing to be afraid of, and when she inquired about the hymen, they asked her what it was, and lamented of such an unnecessary thing and barbaric traditions associated with it, for they, as it turned out, didn’t have them.</p><p>It has been painful the first few times, but not after. No, this probably wasn’t worth mentioning in her notes. It was unseemly. She’d spent enough time evading questions about all of this, and going scarlet every time the subject came up…</p><p>What would be really important to tell, then? John did not understand for very long what made them unique. She did. Their empathy. But how could John understand it if <em> he </em> didn’t have a word for it?</p><p>They were never sad or mournful as humans were. None of them were ever alone, unless they chose to be, and loneliness is usually the source of the most insufferable kind of sadness. If, however, one would find themselves inexplicably sorrowful, they would only have to go to the Temple clinic where they would be prescribed medicinal herbs to smoke and take in their tea, which sounded pleasant enough, and enemas and scalding hot baths, which didn’t, but altogether the treatment always proved effective.</p><p>They didn’t grieve for their dead as humans did, instead surrounding themselves with friends, drinking and trading stories for days until the pain subsided, for they saw death as a temporary parting until their bodies, too, would be carried down the deepest cavern where they would be reunited with their loved ones and mayhaps decide to return to their tribe as babes, born anew. She wished she had their confidence, she wished to believe she would again see the ones she loved and lost, but so far she didn’t even understand their religion very well. A god ought to have a face, yet theirs didn’t. A scripture ought to have tales of the world's creation and of holy men and of God’s covenant, yet their legends and tales only told of tricksters, heroes with magical golden eyes, daring adventurers and reunited lovers. Sure, those were gripping stories, but they didn’t explain their faith very well. Was Mountain Mother their Goddess, she would ask, was she a creator, and did she have a visage? And the priestesses would shake their heads and tell her not to rush. Always just that.</p><p>No wonder John wrote nothing at all about their religion. He just stuck to calling them “green heathens” almost until the very end.</p><p>Trying to breathe evenly, she ascended the empty stage. The girls were cheering and clapping for her loudly, and she winced. She did not want them to do it. They meant well, they simply did not understand the concepts of fear, or shame, or timidness. Not their fault. She dragged a chair behind her with one hand, the other, clutching the tall bag that held her lyre, and planted the chair in the center. She wanted to do it quietly, and failed. The sound alone attracted those in the nearest rows who weren’t looking at her before.</p><p>“Hurray, you’re doing it!”</p><p>
  <em> Thanks, Mahri. </em>
</p><p>How did it go? “<em> The raging sea is cruel and dark…” </em></p><p>For almost two years now she’s kept to a schedule: every day she would wake up at the first morning bell, sounding from the Temple tower, take a simple breakfast of tea and bread and cheese and fruit when she had it, wash and dress, taking particular care to brush her thick and wavy hair that’s grown so wild since she’s arrived and that she was happy never to have to sheer again as they did at the Convent. Then she would go for a morning walk down the coast when the storm wasn’t raging, or to the Temple gardens when they were in bloom, or up the stone Road of Steps to the Observation deck. This last one was her favourite despite being the hardest and longest to reach. From it, she would look upon the tiled roofs of stone cottages down below, and the artisans’ halls, bathhouses with their chimneys smoking, shops and bakeries and gardens, and the majesty of the Temple and its walls. It wasn’t a big city like the one she grew up in, it wasn’t even the capital of the aldamaari lands, but it was the most beautiful, best kept and the most sacred, for it lay right below their holy Mountain Mother.</p><p>After that she would go to work gladly, and do whatever was asked of her, and listen to the day’s reader, or read on her own in the library whenever she had time. She ate with the Temple sisters, or with the other weavers, and listened to their gossip and stories, while talking very little, for she did not think she had a lot of cheerful stories to offer. Hers were ones of woe and of loss and pain. She wanted to forget them. For now she would make do with not talking about them.</p><p>
  <em> “...and all his friends are dead.” </em>
</p><p>In the evenings they would all go down into a huge dining hall by the central communal kitchen, or the market where they would sit together at the wooden tables, drink pomegranate juice and beer, and eat greasy, flaky fried fish, or noodles smothered in butter and garlic, or thick creamy spreads, served with fresh bread and greens.</p><p>This stage. That stood by the central square. It was a marvel of architecture, in every way imaginable, with a shell-shaped structure around it that amplified sound.</p><p>Every evening, some people would ascend it to sing or play or tell stories.</p><p>Being the center of attention was mortifying, but she closed her eyes and sang, and then it was over and done, and the girls clapped, whooped and cheered again. Very, very loudly.</p><p>
  <em> Please stop. </em>
</p><p>There were a few polite claps from strangers, too, though. On her way down, a middle-aged woman, huge and burly, stopped her and, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes, said, “Such a beautiful voice!”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Maeve, the oldest of the three Temple Sisters she knew best, must have joined the girls while she was singing. They exchanged kisses.</p><p>“By Gods, I missed nearly everything! Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine, Maeve. Where were you?”</p><p>“Checking on that last one. They let me go so I could eat but they still need someone to come back later. For protocol, I suppose? It’s just for tonight.”</p><p>“I’ll go!” she blurted out. “I’ll go right now!”</p><p>Mahri tugged at her sleeve. “But we were going to go wash.”</p><p>Every evening then would go to the Temple bathhouse, together still, and wash off the grease from their hands and faces, and the day’s work from their bodies. If she ached from overworking, she would ask a local healer, Carisme, for help, and the healer would lay her on a marble slab in a separate room and massage and squeeze her sore muscles with merciless force, eliciting groans from her and crunching sounds from her aching joints. The next morning the pain would be gone, although more often than not she would find a few bruises have formed here and there. Carisme was a very strong woman, and one of those here she admired most. The healer’s brutish care, as well as hugs and pecks offered by her new friends upon meeting her every morning seemed enough to satiate a hunger for touch. Back at the Convent, she didn’t even have that, so she made do and dared not wish for more.</p><p>“That's very kind of you.” Maeve answered, unsmiling. “But you’ve done enough. Please get some rest. Now. Did any of you save some food for me?..”</p><p>She’d then walk home, and read by lamplight, or practice the lyre, or tidy up her humble abode if need arose and if she had the strength to. She no longer knelt or prayed before going to bed, and slept soundly, and dreamt rarely. But when she did, it was either something from her past life, or odd, undefined, dark things in which she felt angry and resolute.</p><p>Getting home, going to bed, falling asleep. All of it hardly seemed possible at the moment. She still did not understand why.</p><p>“Yeah, I did.” Mahri produced a paper bundle from her backpack, which held a loaf cut lengthwise and filled with pickled vegetables, cheese and fried fish.</p><p>“Oh. Thank you! So hungry. Anyway, dear, don’t go there, they’ll be just fine.”</p><p>Will <em> he </em>be just fine, too? He was supposed to wake up, but didn’t. What if he’d sleep until the end of the week? Then she’d surely go. Just… Just to be safe. Maybe there was something she could do...</p><p>On the eight day of each week, which was called the Worship day, she would sleep late, and then attend the service at the Temple. She loved the singing most of all, and she used to sing together with everyone even when she didn’t understand the words. Understanding them didn’t make things much clearer though - they seemed very vague, just as this whole religion - but the service still had an aura of unity and mirth and optimism that gloomy worships of her old life never did.</p><p>With her mouth full, Maeve asked, “Sorry, which one did you sing? Was it about that human explorer?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Who wrote that song, anyway?”</p><p>She shrugged. Who, indeed. It was in the local language, after all. Maybe John’s companions? Those got lucky and fled back here with their families. Maybe it was a tribute of sorts?</p><p>She knew there were others from back “home”. A merchant coming on a massive cog twice a year to a trading post down the coast, near Nerupin. A family living there and keeping his business running. A small group of runaway heretics hiding in another aldamaari town, further to the south, and working in the silver mines or as fishermen. There must have been others she knew nothing about. Not here, though, not in the town of Rheske by the Mountain Mother. Here, she was the only one.</p><p>She would be called upon sooner or later, she knew it. Yet she also knew when she’d see the familiar, dreadful carrack on the horizon, she would run, and her new sisters would not give her away. Not after what she’s told them, and not after they’d seen her scars in the bathhouse, or heard her songs.</p><p>“Right then, let’s go wash.”</p><p>“I’ll catch up,” Maeve said, hastily swallowing a chunk of fish.</p><p>At times, she also wondered if humans would look for ways to attack. They couldn’t bear the thought of someone living better lives not governed by their kings and lords. After a while she realized she knew what she'd do if that day would come, too…</p><p>Sanctimonious humans would preach of paradise in the afterlife, at the bosom of the merciful Creator, and then belittle, hurt, maim and kill each other, yet this <em> was </em> paradise, here and now, and she would gladly defend it.</p><p>“Oh, look, she’s out of it again.”</p><p>“No, really, what’s wrong with her today...”</p><p>What <em> was </em>wrong? Just a man. Sleeping. He looked so strong. But his features were so gentle. His face looked like that of a boy of sixteen. He must have been ten years older than that… Just one man. There were plenty of others around. Some would even smile at her. And they were all perfectly friendly.</p><p>“Are you coming? Hey, Aoife? Aoife?”</p><p>“Huh? Yes. I was just...”</p><p>Just confused.</p><p>Her name used to be Eve, but twenty months ago she’d decided to spell it “Aoife” in the local manner. Aoife has never felt so welcomed, so loved and so happy for so long, and it seemed as if nothing could shake that feeling.</p><p>So, a stranger not awakening from his mystic dream the purpose of which, as well as the religion that called for it, still remained an enigma to her, was to be the very first thing in two years that made her truly sad, and, initially, Aoife did not know why.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*A cute Immigrant girl overcomes her stage fright while spewing out exposition and crushing hard on a comatose Green guy.<br/>//</p><p>From now on, please see the end notes for chapter specific tags if you usually need to know/are worried, I don't want to clutter the header.<br/>Thank you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “They are fine physical specimens, the likes of which have never been seen. They are strong, lean and muscled and seem well-fed. None of the men grow facial hair. Their hands and feet are proportional, with the number of fingers and toes corresponding to that of God’s human children. The height of an average adult is herewith: two meters and ten centimeters for males, two meters exact for women. I have however seen specimens reaching two meters and forty centimeters, in both sexes. The latter do not appear to be more ferocious in nature and do not always perform the hardest of labors. For shame.” </em>
</p><p>She approached the High Priestess after the service two days later. She had thought she would not be allowed in the first time she asked for permission to go into the caverns unaccompanied. But Drifeo gave her permission right away, and asked no questions. Aoife thought she saw the shade of a smile on the Priestess's face, but maybe it was but a trick of the light.</p><p>So instead of going to week’s end festivities or meeting her friends, she walked up the Road of Steps, past the Observation deck, to the cavern’s mouth. A single guard greeted her and gave her an oil lamp, and she walked in, all alone, with a bouquet of spring blooms in one hand and the lamp in the other. All of the chambers were now empty and unwatched, safe for one.</p><p>Aoife sat on the bench next to his stone bath and laid the flowers on its edge, praying that she would not offend anyone with this gesture. But she really wanted to bring them, because his name was Florion, and he was missing out on the first blooms of spring, for which he has been named.</p><p>Neither pose nor expression has changed, he still lay there, sound asleep, and dreaming. His long green hair swayed in the water like a crown of sea ferns. He was so beautiful, so ethereal in his slumber that looking upon him again, whilst alone, took her breath away. She wanted desperately to touch his high brow, to wipe the drops of water from it, to trace with her fingers the tattooed symbols, leaves and branches that snaked from his neck down his chest, or the ones that circled his arms and from under the loincloth down his lean thighs. He had an imposing strength about him, all stony curves and sinewy muscles, evident even in such a helpless state. Standing, he would tower over her. His hand would crush her neck easily. Yet he also had a kind face and gentle features, with long thick eyelashes, high cheekbones, pointy chin and not too sharp a jawline. His lips, slightly open, seemed so warm and pliant. She yearned to touch them, too, but dared not move. But most of all she wondered what his eyes looked like when open. Were they the light green of his skin, or the deep virid of his hair? Were they instead dark brown, like the High Priestess’ or was it a kaleidoscope of warm and earthy colors, like she’s seen in some aldamaari women? She thought of what it would feel like to have such a beautiful creature look upon her with those eyes, from under those thick eyelashes, and smile with these pillowy lips. She thought of other things, too, and then felt smothering shame for thinking them.</p><p>Suddenly, she knew the cause of her sadness, but knowing did not ease it.</p><p>Not daring to touch his brow, she grazed the surface of the water next to his head with only a slightest touch of her fingertips.</p><p>Then she jerked her hand back, paused for a heartbeat or two, opened her satchel and produced the lyre, her most treasured possession. The thought of which song would be appropriate gave her pause, yet before she could settle on one, her voice rang and her fingers touched the strings as if of their own accord. It was neither a new tune, nor a local one. It was all the things she hated in songs now - mournful, slow and in the tongue she no longer wanted to speak or sing in. It told of eldritch things lurking in the darkness, and ways of keeping them at bay.</p><p>She sang on, wishing for him to wake up and yet praying he doesn’t. Not now, not with her here.</p><p>When she was done, she packed her lyre, stood up and left without uttering another sound, and her fingers prickled not from the strings, she realised, but from unfulfilled desire to touch the beautiful sleeping stranger.</p><p>That night she dreamt of him for the first time. In the dream it was twilight, and the red crescent moon shone upon the edge of a precipice he stood on, his eyes still shut. The wind was feral, blowing his hair into his face and threatening to push him forward, into the bottomless chasm. She reached for him and cried out before realising she ought not fear for his life, for he <em> was </em> the darkness, he <em> was </em> the abyss, he <em> was </em> the wind. He radiated raw power. And oh, in his majesty and daring, was he a sight to behold. Suddenly she heard her own name reverberate in a deep, husky voice. At the sound her whole body shook of a feeling as of yet unknown to her.</p><p>He smiled and opened his eyes.</p><p>They were golden.</p><p>When she awoke, flushed and sweating, outside the wind was raging just like in her dream. Through the window that’s flung open while she slept, she heard and smelled the storm coming. Which meant no fishing boats would sail out into sea today, they all would be chained down in the harbor, and those who worked them would help at the smokehouse instead. That, she still couldn’t grasp. She had yet to meet anyone in Rheske who disliked working and helping others. She’s never met any criminals or heard of any crimes committed, neither… Or, by that matter, of kings and lords, of governments and their proceedings. Then again, she’s never really asked the right questions for fear of suspicions of espionage. All she wanted to do was blend in. Nothing could interfere with that.</p><p>And going back to the caverns even though the High Priestess herself no longer visited the last sleeper, again, so soon after last time, would most certainly stand out. And yet she knew she’d go. She rushed through her morning routine and left the house much earlier than she usually did despite the fact that storms didn’t make for good companions on a stroll. She wrapped herself in a cloak and half-walked, half-ran up the narrow paved street to the Road of Steps. It was empty, no one to greet, no one to wish a good morning to. It still hadn't rained when she arrived at the cavern entrance, panting, but the air was heavy and humid, and the very first rare drops started landing on her face and hands and hair.</p><p>Thankfully, there was a new guard, who, yet again, asked no questions. This time she had no flowers with her, but instead gave the guardswoman some bread and white crumbly cheese wrapped in paper, receiving a silent nod of gratitude, and the same oil lamp in exchange. She was so happy to be let in that barely thought anything of the oddity of it, though somewhere in the back of her mind the question steered for a moment: why were they so careless with their most treasured - or so it would seem - citizens, letting strangers in, asking naught of their purpose, nor checking them for weapons?</p><p>The snowdrops she left by his side last night have disappeared. Maybe someone came and cleaned them up, or they could have fallen into the stone bath and drowned in it - the thing seemed to have no visible bottom. In either case, she hoped yet again that she wasn’t breaking any rules or contaminating the waters. And she really ought to have asked a priestess or a caretaker about it…</p><p>Aoife settled down on the same stone bench and looked upon the sleeper once again, with shame and tenderness. And then she noticed it: upon his abdomen was a small, white flower. On impulse alone she reached out and grasped to remove it from the water, and yet her calloused fingers met skin. She touched it again, insistently, wondering frantically if it may have flattened somehow and clung to him just as leaves cling to skin in the rain. No such luck. It was, unmistakably, a tattoo where yesterday there was none: a small bell shaped outline of a blooming snowdrop.</p><p>She stood up abruptly then, and took a step back, and another. And then she was running away, caring not for how her loud footsteps and spastic breathing broke the silence, or what the guard might think. The downpour was in full swing outside, and she kept on running, making little effort to keep the hood on, so by the time Aoife arrived, panting, at the Temple gardens, she was soaked. There, young priestesses were laughing and shouting and jokingly mocking each other for not being hasty enough: they’ve just finished covering the young jasmine bushes with an impermeable cloth, although they should have done it earlier, before the rain started.</p><p>There were a few dozen sisters living at the Temple, and only a few of them were present, so it was insanely lucky that she immediately saw a friend.</p><p>“Mahri!”</p><p>“So what if it’s my turn, I was asleep!” Mahri was saying to another girl, not noticing Aoife at first from behind the thick curtain of rain. “Can a hard-working girl not get an additional hour of sleep? On a useless day like this?!”</p><p>“Mahri! Where’s Maeve? Damn, Maeve, you have to help me,” Aoife almost smashed into the latter at full speed, and the other girls stopped laughing at once.</p><p>“Come, come inside,” one said.</p><p>“There is nothing in this world that cannot be fixed,” the other assured her.</p><p>Maeve wrapped an arm around her and led her into the dormitories that were still in disarray this early in the morning. Then her friends sat her down, gave her a clean dry robe to change into, which she did, while noticing her hands were shaking.</p><p>“Calm down,” Maeve said.</p><p>She told them of what had happened but did not explain why she <em> really </em> went to see the sleeper in the first place, instead painting it a sympathetic gesture of care and pity.</p><p>“So then I saw it was a tattoo, and I am positive it wasn’t there yesterday,” she finished.</p><p>Their reactions were somewhat baffling though. Shyle let out a squeal, which Aoife has never heard her utter before. Mahri gasped, yet not a sound of shock but rather one you make when pleasantly surprised. Maeve bit her lower lip, and with it, a smile.</p><p>“There is absolutely nothing to worry about,” she said at last. “They’re magi, see. How do you think they get these tattoos? I know of no one here with such a skill with an inked needle. No, they simply wish them into existence.”</p><p>“O-o-h, he must have liked your flowers,” said Shyle, now giggling quietly. “And decided to keep one.”</p><p>“They can do that?!”</p><p>Maeve offered, vaguely, “Sometimes. They can do a lot of things. Don’t worry. Had any food yet? Come on.”</p><p>But she couldn’t help but worry, although the reason was different now. Did it all mean then that he wasn’t truly asleep? That he’d seen her, heard her sing, and knew of her yearning gaze?</p><p>“You should go visit him again,” Shyle said, passing her a basket of bread rolls. “No one else does. He’s from Iquinous. No family here.”</p><p>So, the town much further down the coast where the heretics were hiding. Hardly any dreamers that were male lived in Rheske. They only arrived here come deep fall.</p><p>“Is it... Am I allowed?”</p><p>“Well, have you asked for permission from a caretaker?”</p><p>She knew none of the caretakers personally, they’ve never exchanged a word, and she’d only met them up inside the mountain, where they seemingly patrolled the corridors from time to time, and were there when their wards woke up. What did they do? Swept the floors? Made sure that the water didn’t get too cold?... Wiped the dreamers’ brows? Watched out for mold on their faces?!.. Aoife had no idea. Might be, they were the ones to summon the clergy there when need arose. However, she’s never seen them out and about. There was a chance she didn’t recognize them without their baggy grey clothes. But caretakers were always big and burly, and would have stood out in the crowd. It was quite odd that their size was so distinguishable, as if they were chosen for this feature alone. Because of it, and because of the mysterious nature of their work, they seemed intimidating to her, so there was no question about whom to ask for permission, and whom to avoid.</p><p>“I asked the High Priestess, and she said yes.”</p><p>“Then don’t worry.” Maeve repeated, and poured her more tea.</p><p>Mahri asked, “Is he handsome?”</p><p><em> He’s beautiful</em>, she thought. <em>As a garden in bloom, as a summer morning. And yet, also as the raging sea, and the storm clouds, and… </em></p><p>“Haven’t really paid attention,” she lied. The girls exchanged looks that could only mean they knew the lie at once. And essentially ignored it.</p><p>Shyle said, “He’s alright. I’ve seen better. But how would that even work, Mahri? Look at her. She might burst.”</p><p>Aoife nearly choked on her food. Maeve, who was evidently keen on not taking further part in this discussion, patted her thrice on the back and went on eating.</p><p>“Oh I’m sure she could take it. If he doesn’t rush...” And Mahri winked playfully.</p><p>Shyle shrugged. “I guess... I’ve snuck a peek once, I suppose his cock is not that huge. Now if she would try to take him in her ass, well then surely...”</p><p>“Would you two stop?” Aoife cried out, feeling herself go scarlet. “I am right here! And he’s asleep anyway... And doesn’t know me.”</p><p>Did Shyle just confess to... Was <em>this</em> allowed, too?! Even if it was, she'd never even think of doing it. </p><p>Aoife thought they'd exchanged meaningful looks again, but was too ashamed to stare lest they call her out on her repeated lie.</p><p>“Sorry!”</p><p>“Yes, forgive these two fools.” And Maeve kissed her on the cheek and put some more cheese curds on her plate.</p><p>She sighed. “I am an easy target, I admit it.”</p><p>“And an open book.”</p><p>They did not pry, neither on that day, or two days later when she came back to help at the Temple again. She would not tell them, as it was something she'd decided would be hers alone until it was inevitably over: almost every morning or evening she’d go to the caverns again. She did not understand her own heart, for she feared the implication of what the girls have said, and yet at the same time she wished for it to be true.</p><p>At times she sang to him, or read to him, or told him little things, and other times simply sat by his side, staring at his unmoving form, or at how the water, seemingly calm and flat, would sway his long luxuriant hair under the surface as if the strands were alive.</p><p>Until one night, that is, when, overworked and tired, and sad and lonely, she fell insensibly asleep right then and there, with her hands folded on the edge of the stone bath and her head laid upon them.</p><p>She found herself inside the most vivid dream she’s ever experienced, and even more oddly, she somehow knew it wasn’t real and yet didn’t immediately awaken although she felt she could do so in an instant if she wanted to. She didn’t. It was a grove she found herself standing in, barefoot on warm rich ground, in front of a giant tree she didn’t know the name of. Above her, between the branches, she saw a ceiling (or a sky?) made of mosaic glass in every shade of green. Was it a grove, or was it a glasshouse? And all around her, through the moss and virid grass, snowdrops bloomed, and not all of them white - some were lilac, some - gentle pink, and a few - in a color she couldn’t have described when awake.</p><p><em> What are you, little creature?  </em>That deep, throaty voice suddenly sounded again, as if from everywhere and from inside her head at once.</p><p>She turned around to see where it was coming from, but saw nothing except for a thick impenetrable growth bathed in a mysterious glow that so resembled the full moon’s light.</p><p>“I am a human,” she said, and heard the leaves on the tree stir, and turned to face it.</p><p><em> What is your name? </em>he asked.</p><p>She told him her name, and he told her his.</p><p>
  <em> They call me Florion. </em>
</p><p>“So you <em> did </em> like my flowers.” Aoife smiled, seeing just how many snowdrops surrounded her here.</p><p><em> They’re almost as beautiful as you are, </em>the voice said.</p><p>What a nice dream it was. Usually figments of her imagination didn’t pay her any compliments in her sleep. More often than not it was all scorn, and fear, and taunts, and cold glares and the whip and the brand. And <em>Eve</em>.</p><p>It seemed bizarre to be talking to a grove. She wished to see him here among the flowers and look into his eyes again.</p><p>“May I look upon your face?”</p><p><em> You are, </em> he said.</p><p>It was the tree, she realised. The trunk was so large and wide and tall it surely could fit a few men inside it. Yet he wasn’t inside of it, she knew at once. No, he <em> was </em> the tree.</p><p>A weird dream, too.</p><p>Aoife took a step forward then and reached for it tentatively.</p><p>It was an odd one, with a trunk so sleek it appeared made of polished copper, and along with regular branches and leaves, she noticed, long smooth lianas hung around it, bearing an uncanny resemblance to elanthie stalks, except much thicker. And once she reached out for the trunk, one of the lianas reached back.</p><p>She froze, nearly willing herself awake but deciding to stay at least a moment longer. Surely no harm could come to her in a dream.</p><p>They were as snakes, these stalks. With smooth rounded ends, flexible and able to coil and to curve and to twist. Each had a will of its own, it would appear. She touched the one that greeted her then, with the tips of her calloused fingers, that weren’t calloused here and now. And, because it was a dream and she felt no shame, she bent down and touched it with her lips, too.</p><p><em> Oh, </em>he said, incredulously. And then the stalk was on her cheek, rubbing it as a gentle hand would, and she leaned into the unfamiliar touch, sighing lightly against her will.</p><p>And then there was another, coiling around her waist and gently pulling her closer to the tree, and she didn’t resist. Aoife touched it. It was warm and even smoother than she thought it would be. For a moment she thought she saw an outline of a face, <em> his face, </em>with eyes closed and lips open, leaning into her touch, too. But it was gone in an instant, leaving nothing but the red and polished metallic surface.</p><p><em> What are you, little creature, </em> he repeated in a much quieter voice and tone that implied he wasn’t expecting <em> her </em>to give an answer. The sound of it reverberated in her neck, down her chest and belly, and reached to her ankles and toes, silky and enveloping.</p><p>She leaned on the trunk with both hands, as, suddenly, she felt her legs would go limp under her and she would fall. She didn’t: a new stalk joined two others in supporting her - under her arms this time, gliding against her heaving chest - and pulling her yet closer, until she was against the tree entirely, pressing her forehead into the trunk and breathing heavily.</p><p>“I think I want to stay like this forever,” she said, or thought, or only felt.</p><p>A moment passed, or maybe a minute, or an hour, or an eternity before she opened her eyes, or were they open all this time, and saw the outline of that beautiful face again. His lips were even with hers... And then on hers, in an instant, and they felt like real, living lips, and a tongue darted between them and found hers, and she allowed him to slowly and tentatively explore her mouth, while the stalks opened her robe and pulled it back and then down, reaching everywhere, gliding against her bare breasts and down the curve of her spine and between her legs where she was already wet and ready and <em> wanting</em>. She arched her back and swayed her hips instinctively to rub her sex against it, and shivered, moaning into that mouth, and hearing Florion moan in return, and then reached to find his body and to cling to it... but all she found was the smooth surface of the trunk.</p><p>Then, all of a sudden, the shame came back, red-hot and revolting, at everything she’d said and done and allowed him to do, and she recoiled and covered herself with both hands. He let her go at once, but she’d thought she heard a groan.</p><p>What if it wasn't just a lucid dream? What if this was really happening, somehow, and she was about to allow a stranger to have his way with her?</p><p>And if it was a dream - and she'd sorely wished it was, for then she could continue dreaming it - surely he'd say so. She wished for him to say so, right now.</p><p>Just a dream, nothing more.</p><p>But he didn't.</p><p>Instead he said, <em> Please don't go. </em></p><p>Oh no, she thought, and jerked awake.</p><p>Her hand was inside the stone bath, and an elanthie stalk clung to a vein on her wrist, and the lamp was about to burn out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Outsider</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*BFFs ruminate on dick sizes.<br/>*Comatose Green guy is a literal kissing tree.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “From the deck of the ship, their city appears immense. Its architecture is not concentric. From within it, it is clean and has streets and alleyways very spacious indeed. Their homes are large, and each has a back garden and drains but no adornments. There are no ikons or corners reserved for prayer in them.” </em>
</p><p>She yanked the stalk out and watched absentmindedly as few drops of her blood fell into the water. It wasn't painful but felt strangely desolating, as if she was cutting herself off from… what? This, Aoife did not know. She only <em> felt </em> it for a heartbeat, and then the feeling was gone. Ashamed to look upon the sleeper, she stood up and ran yet again, rushing out just before the lamp was extinguished entirely. Then gave it to the guardswoman and went home.</p><p>At least she realised she did upon finding herself by the hearth: of how she got there, opened the door and such, there was barely any memory. As if she was here and yet still away in part: in that glasshouse of dreams, by the tree that wasn’t really a tree.</p><p>It was chilly outside, this much she knew when she felt herself shiver. She should have gone to the bathhouse instead of here, but facing the Temple sisters right now seemed burdensome: she absurdly thought they’d <em> know </em> everything, and pry and ask questions.</p><p>But pry and ask about what, exactly?</p><p><em> Oh, maybe about this, </em>she thought upon undressing and seeing her undergarments.</p><p>A nice dream, a weird dream, <em> a dream that soaks through your smallclothes</em>. Despite the chill, she felt herself blush again. There was this thirst still that the dream has brought, and not the one you sate with water.</p><p>Aoife pulled herself together, and changed into a bathrobe, and lit the lamps, and the hearth in her room, and the one under the water reservoir. She forced herself to eat, though she barely noticed the taste, to brush her hair, to launder those sorry undergarments in tepid water while waiting for enough of it to heat properly for her to bathe. The minutes dragged, and her thoughts with them.</p><p>It felt so real. So very real. His pliant mouth, his warm tongue, the greedy sound he made when one of his appendages was gliding between her legs, and the feeling itself, too - to be touched in such a way. Aoife couldn’t have imagined it, she wasn’t able: she’s never been with a man in that sense, and anyone’s imagination has limits, doesn’t it?</p><p>She made the bed and barely noticed. She cleaned the already quite clean kitchen without realising it. She wanted desperately to find something else to do, but there was nothing.</p><p><em> I’m lonely, </em>Aoife admitted to herself. And lonely meant sad, and sad in Rheske meant she should seek help, but she dared not ask for it. There was so much shame still in her, at times it felt overwhelming, and this was certainly one of those times.</p><p><em> I imagined that he was lonely too, </em> her inner voice went on ruthlessly. <em> I only saw myself in him. That’s all it is. Just a dream. An illusion. Just me reaching out for the moon's reflection in a pond thinking it’s the sky. </em></p><p>Finally, Aoife drew a bath. The water was still lukewarm but she settled for it, thinking this kind of chill would help distract and calm her down. Wrongfully, alas. She still <em> ached</em>.</p><p>Glancing momentarily down, she noticed a tiny hole in her wrist where the elanthie clung to her, it looked almost exactly as a mosquito bite, except without the redness and itching irritation. There was no longer any blood caked over it. She studied it for a few heartbeats more before lowering her hand between her thighs.</p><p><em> Don’t, you'll only feel empty after, </em>that little nagging voice in her head said.</p><p>She ignored it. Aoife let herself believe, if only for a minute, that it was truly only a dream, and there was no embarrassment and no need for shame as long as there was secrecy, as long as it was in all conscience something only <em> hers</em>, and then she inhaled sharply while rubbing her center and bit her lip and closed her eyes and threw her head back and thought of those flexible stalks and how she’d love to take one in her mouth and taste it - the surface of it seemed velvety almost <em> and </em></p><p>It was alarming how little time, how few strokes she needed to come this time, and how intensely she felt it, and how raw, desperate was the sound that escaped her.</p><p>But more alarming were the tears that came after. That familiar little voice was right, after all. Aoife cried herself to sleep that night, wishing she would stop feeling the way she did, and not being able to.</p><p>Her sleep was heavy and dreamless, and when the morning came, it was a crisp and sunny one, so fitting for the Worship day, yet she could barely see it through her puffy eyes. Aoife kept her face in a basin filled with stone cold water for as long as one would when drunk and wishing to sober up. It helped very little.</p><p>To kill time before the service she went down to the docks taking what some called the Food Road - one that had bakeries, creameries, smokehouses and oil mills, wine cellars and roasteries. It was a busy one, with couriers going out and about on their weird three-wheeled pedaled contraptions, flamestone smoke rising from multiple chimneys and the smells mixing tantalizingly around her. Work never stopped here, not even for Worship day, nor did it ever stop down in the harbor.</p><p>Along the way, at the bakery, she got a custard bun. It was her favourite confection, and associated with nothing but good things, too, because they baked them only on the eight day of the week. Yet while she stood next to the wharf and chewed the bun absentmindedly, she barely enjoyed the taste.</p><p>There swayed a ship resembling a galleon, at the nearest longpier. Her name was the Butterfly, and she came every month or so, carrying the bounty from Iquinous’ mines and taking back dried fruit, spices, olive oil, wine and such. The valley on the other side of the Mountain Mother was ever a breadbasket.</p><p>One man, evidently a sailor, disembarked, lumbering and swinging slightly on his unsure feet, as if he’s grown out of the habit of walking upon solid ground, and was immediately greeted by a tall, stern looking woman with her hair tied in a high bun. It piqued Aoife’s curiosity immediately, because she recognized the woman as another dreamer. She’s seen her when visiting the caverns with Drifeo and many Temple sisters, when witnessing the awakening of some, including this woman, and helping lead or carry them to the Temple clinic - they were all awfully weak when they woke and needed nourishment and treatment to get better.</p><p>Now, however, the woman seemed in good health and sturdy on her feet. Aoife noticed something else about her: her skin was clear and light green, with not a single trace of ink, although upon waking she had barely any skin visible - her entire body up to her chin was covered in some convoluted lines and, Aoife thought, symbols and numbers, thrown around seemingly at random. She remembered because she thought it wasn’t a pretty or a particularly well done adornment, and briefly wondered if it had any religious meaning.</p><p>Yet here the dreamer woman stood, her skin free of any artificial markings - at least on her arms and neck and the portion of her chest that wasn’t covered by her unbuttoned shirt and leather jerkin.</p><p>The woman was speaking to the sailor with a noticeable irritation about her. The man, though looking young and handsome in his long salt-rimmed overcoat, with dark, shoulder-length hair, a chiseled jawline, straight nose, and transparent grey eyes, had a weather-beaten face, distorted further by barely conceived worry. Although ashamed of what she was doing, she couldn’t help but sneak a little closer to listen.</p><p>“He must have stumbled upon something that ought not to have been touched, and is now paying the price,” the man said in a sorrowful tone, shaking his head.</p><p>“It’s useless to speculate,” said the woman. “What good will it do?”</p><p>“I want some peace of mind, is all,” said the man apologetically. “I care. Couldn’t you give me <em> something</em>?” he implored.</p><p>The woman evidently ignored his question and instead offered a heap of her own ones.</p><p>“When will you be leaving? Tonight? Where to? For how long?”</p><p>“Eventide. Home. Then maybe the isles if the captain says so. Then back here.” He sighed.</p><p>“So till next month, then,” said the woman impatiently. “But you’ll make it in time, right?”</p><p>“Well, yes… Told you I’ll do it, didn’t I?... Listen, I’d really like to have something, anything at all, because I will be at sea...”</p><p>The woman turned around all at once and <em> glared </em>at Aoife crossly.</p><p>She asked, “What is it, girl?”</p><p>The man noticed her, too, although his wasn’t an unfriendly look. As it turned out, Aoife, on her part, failed to notice that the cargo was all but unloaded and the dock workers and yeomen have dissipated, no doubt going into the storehouse, and she was no longer blending in with the crowd, for there was barely any crowd there. No, now she stood unmoving next to two people talking.</p><p>“I… nothing. I was just looking,” she stumbled through her words. “Is this the Butterfly? She’s very… imposing.”</p><p>The woman narrowed her eyes with suspicion.</p><p>“Why yes,” the man said, smiling warmly and seemingly oblivious to the pretense. “Isn’t she the most beautif...”</p><p>“<em>What </em> do you want, <b>outlander</b>?” the woman interrupted.</p><p>Unfriendly, irritated, not just stern - borderline rancorous. It was the first time in two years anyone here has addressed her in this way, and Aoife felt her heart sink and her eyes water against her will. She’s forgotten it. She’s forgotten how it feels. And now, as if it all came crashing down upon her, the memories and the feelings they elicited in her past life and fears from her earliest days in Rheske came flooding back.</p><p>She squealed, “I’m sorry,” and rushed away.</p><p>“Now why do you have to be like <em> this, </em> Lideo<em>,</em>” she heard the man say to the woman with disapproval, but then Aoife was on the upper boardwalk, leaning on the railing and fighting back tears, so she didn’t hear the answer if there was one. She needn’t have.</p><p>
  <em> Unwelcome, unbidden, a stranger, an outsider. An outlander. No. No, stop it. The woman was just in a foul mood, is all. And you were so obviously eavesdropping on a private conversation. Stop it! </em>
</p><p>Whatever was happening to her? She’s been so happy, heart unstirred, and not a single tear of sorrow has been shed by her in two years, now all at once she’s crying for two days in a row with barely any reasonable cause.</p><p>She turned around to see the woman gone and the man heading in her direction, with that weird seaman’s gait of his. She scurried up and away before he could reach her. The Temple bells rang, announcing that the service will be starting in an hour.</p><p>She <em> must </em> seek help. And she would muster her courage to do that right after the service. There is no shame in asking for help.</p><p>Aoife came in way before the service started and took her traditional seat almost at the very back of the giant hall. The acoustics were such that it wouldn’t hinder her ability to listen. In a bit, the Temple sisters appeared and waved at her, and Mahri, who wasn’t serving today, took the seat to her left and gave her shoulder a squeeze and her cheek, a quick peck.</p><p>She said, “You seem sullen today.”</p><p>“Am not,” Aoife answered. And she wasn’t, not really. It wasn’t sullenness she felt, it was sorrow that grew for days from odd misshapen sadness as a weed grows from a foreign seed carried in by the wind.</p><p>Usually after the service they would go to the festivities together as revelers, or sometimes be called to help with the grills or outdoor ovens. There would be dancing and cheerful music, as usual, and the thought of those gave her nausea.</p><p>“Can we… May I join you a bit later today? I have a matter to discuss with the...” Someone took the seat to her right, groaning momentarily. She turned and with her heart sinking yet again, saw the man from the docks smiling at her. He smelled of salt and sea air and yet also of soap, and looked as if he just came back from the bathhouse after a quick grooming.</p><p>Noticing the glare, he asked, “Is this seat taken?”</p><p>“It’s not,” Aoife said reluctantly, while Mahri simply stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar.</p><p>“Good, good. Because, you see, I saw you here and wanted to apologize to you for the way Lideo treated you.”</p><p>“No harm done.” This was, all in all, a lie.</p><p>“And yet I ought to speak,” said the man. “She may be harsch, and she has few friends, and doesn’t care. She is very effective in what she does, but quite brusque in her treatment of others. You must forgive her.”</p><p>“I do, and thank you,” said Aoife, frankly touched and a bit relieved.</p><p>Mahri wedged in, smiling and absentmindedly adjusting her hairdo. “What is your name? I haven’t seen you around these parts.”</p><p>“My name is Ouhrion, and no, you haven’t, I don't live here. I’ve been sailing from my native Iquinous to Beruza for years, switched to this route only a few months ago.”</p><p>“Ah, so you’re a sailor! I’m Mahri, I serve here, and this is Aoife.”</p><p>The man inclined his head politely. “It’s nice to meet you, sister Mahri.” He then spoke to Aoife again. “Forgive me but I am well aware of your name and occupation. There are very few humans around these parts and we like to think we have them all counted and sorted.”</p><p>“It’s alright.”</p><p>This was to be expected, after all. <em> Outlander. </em></p><p>“You seemed interested in our ship,” he continued. “I’d show her to you properly, but unfortunately, after the service and one familial visit I am to depart with her. Maybe next time.”</p><p>“Maybe,” Aoife nodded, praying that he’d forget the encounter at the docks before the next time came.</p><p>“What family are you visiting here? Would that be your wife?” inquired Mahri. Oh, she wasn’t subtle at all. Aoife did not blame her. The man, with this glorious jawline of his, was, after all, what people here called “classically handsome”, whatever that meant. But it was not <em> her </em> type of handsome.</p><p>“No, I’m not married. It’s just a friend I’ve known since early childhood. He’s from Iquinous as well but he...” Ouhrion paused suddenly. And Aoife didn’t understand how, but she <em> knew </em>at once.</p><p>“He is a dreamer,” he finished, proving her at least half right.</p><p>“And he hasn’t awoken yet,” she blurted out.</p><p>“Yes,” Ouhrion said, somewhat taken back. “Are you acquainted?”</p><p>“Just heard a thing or two about the whole ordeal,” she muttered, and suddenly, Ouhrion’s words from earlier rang in her mind.</p><p>
  <em> He must have stumbled upon something that ought not to have been touched, and is now paying the price. </em>
</p><p>Was he… was he talking about Florion? What, then, could he have “stumbled upon”? What were the dreamers doing this for, anyway? And was Ouhrion inquiring after him then, and then denied any information by Lideo?</p><p>“Oh I’d say it’s more than a thing or two,” squealed Mahri.</p><p>“Whatever do you mean, sister?”</p><p>Aoife tried to step on her foot, but it was too late and of no use.</p><p>“She’s <em> visited </em> him,” Mahri said, stressing that one word, and not being able to hold back a mischievous smile. “On more than one occasion. Or more than a dozen… I’d say your friend has an admirer in her!”</p><p>Not subtle at all. Aoife sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. Oh, for all the damnable gods with or without a visage.</p><p>“And so I did,” she admitted, seeing that it wouldn’t be prudent to insist on a lie or dodge an honest answer. “I felt he ought to have a friendly visitor, seeing as no one else volunteered.”</p><p>She half expected scorn or suspicion, instead Ouhrion grasped her hand.</p><p>“Then I am grateful, but you must tell me everything you know, I beg of you.” And it did seem to be a candid plea.</p><p>The pre-service choir started singing and, taking advantage of the sound to evade Mahri, Aoife leaned closer to him and squeezed his hand amicably, but then let go of it almost at once.</p><p>“There’s frankly very little to tell. Yes, I did visit him and sat by his side a lot of times, and he does appear to be unharmed and still dreaming.”</p><p>“Do you know if anyone’s tried talking to him?” Ouhrion whispered back.</p><p>“Well, no, he is sound asl…” She stopped mid-word. “Wait, how would that work?”</p><p>“In cases like this, sometimes they would authorize another to attach themselves to one of the dreamer’s own elanthie reeds, and enter the same... Uhm. Communicate with them. Usually this would be done by one of the clergy, or another dreamer. Or so I’ve heard. It hasn’t been done or even required for years, maybe decades.”</p><p>She felt her neck turn slowly scarlet. Oh, no. Oh no, no, no, please, no.</p><p>“I… No, I can’t say I have heard of such an event occurring.” Her voice, mercifully, <em> almost </em> didn’t break.</p><p>“Then I must learn if they would allow <em> me </em> to do it,” he muttered. “I worry. I came here to take him home, and now I find he’s in such a sorry state… And giving me no explanation? They told me I shouldn’t fret but I can’t help it.”</p><p>“I understand.” And she did.</p><p>The service then started in earnest and they were called to stand up. She listened, and then sang, as usual, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept throwing glances at Ouhrion. He wasn’t singing, in fact he was barely listening, and despite the usual mirth of the occasion, his face was troubled and his brow, creased.</p><p>Should she tell him? Should she admit that, in fact, <em> she </em> was the one to <em> talk </em> to Florion, as there could no longer be any denying that this wasn’t a regular dream? And without the special <em> authorization, </em> at that, but seemingly by accident? And forthrightly, did it really count as talking, what they did? She didn’t ask if Florion was alright, or aware, or in trouble; she didn’t even think of taking a message to his loved ones - how could she know to?! They'd barely exchanged a few words before they were kissing, and then she was naked against him while his appendages were writhing around her and between her legs, and she herself was about to let them penetrate her without a second thought. How would she describe and explain <em> that </em>filth to his childhood friend? And wouldn’t there be some punishment when they found out?</p><p>No, not before the Ungeherre desert freezes over.</p><p>There’s no way she would tell anyone. She wouldn’t risk even the slightest chance of exile. Exile meant death - by her own hand.</p><p>The service dragged on for her until the very end. While others, including Mahri, were rushing out, eager to reach the market or the Food Road, Ouhrion remained seated, waiting. He looked to the High Priestess who was by the altar, giving her personal blessings to children.</p><p>Aoife waited for her to be done, too, but then thought better of it, and stood up to leave. Her dreaded <em> asking for help </em> could wait another day. She felt a calloused hand touch her wrist then.</p><p>“Would it be too much if I asked you to stay?” Ouhrion said.</p><p>She hesitated. This was exactly what she was trying to avoid.</p><p>“I guess not. But why would you need me here?”</p><p>“You have been kind to him, surely you care about him in a way, so perhaps you would join me in my plea.”</p><p>She sat back down.</p><p>“Does… does he have a family? Would they want to visit, as well?”</p><p>She, too, wasn’t subtle.</p><p>“No family to speak of. He’s dedicated himself to his service, and has done more than a few things for his countrymen. Year after year… Every goddamn winter… Surely he deserves safety...” Ouhrion muttered, almost to himself.</p><p>Service? Things? Oh, how little did she know or understand indeed - if anything at all.</p><p>“I’ll stay if it’ll bring you solace,” she said.</p><p>And so she waited until the Temple hall emptied and approached Drifeo with Ouhrion, and stood silently behind him, some distance away, while he presented his petition.</p><p>And when he was done, the High Priestess took his hand and patted it.</p><p>“My darling, darling one,” she told him in a tone befitting a kindly grandmother rather than the sovereign clergywoman. “Don’t worry, I beseech you, and don’t fret. He <em> will </em> be safe, and he <em> will </em> awaken before the spring’s end, and we <em> will </em> take good care of him, I promise you.”</p><p>Her words, it seemed, have persuaded him very little.</p><p>“But… If only I could talk...”</p><p>“You, my dear, couldn’t if you tried. And there is no need to bother him,” she interrupted, her smile unceasing. “If there is even the slightest change in his breathing, and if...” She glanced momentarily at Aoife. “And if there’s new markings upon him that we deem dangerous, then we shall talk to him.”</p><p>Ouhrion’s broad shoulders dropped. It was made quite clear to him that additional pleading would be in vain.</p><p>“Now <em> you </em> must promise me you will not let this trouble you.”</p><p>Something happened to his features then. They got distorted in a way that momentarily reminded Aoife of a petulant toddler. A mien of a stubborn, pouting child. But only for a second, because the next, he was back to normal.</p><p>“I will. I do,” he said, and then nodded curtly, and turned to take his leave.</p><p>“Please, walk with me,” he whispered to Aoife, and she followed.</p><p>She walked him to the Road of Steps, and he was silent on the way, his face wistful. As all the aldamaari men he towered, frighteningly tall next to her, yet somehow seemed much smaller now, in his grief and confusion. Upon reaching the Road he stopped abruptly and turned to face her.</p><p>“Thank you for taking me here. I will go and see him now, alone,” he said, still mournful but strangely determined. “I must at least make sure he is still breathing. I must… I must trust them when they say they know what is best. If only it were that easy… But you… Forgive me, my lady Aoife, you are an outsider, yet I see it as a good thing in this matter. I have a request, if I may.”</p><p>It was the second time someone’s called her that today, yet coming from him, it didn’t offend her in the slightest.</p><p>“What would you have me do?”</p><p>“I would ask you to continue with your visits to Florion’s side. I would ask you to watch over him. And see if you notice any abnormalities that others wouldn’t. I do not know what. I do not even know why I am asking. Forgive me. I shouldn’t...”</p><p>“I’ll do it,” she said, feeling for him. “I will, I swear it.”</p><p>“Then I will be back in a month’s time, if the sea is merciful and if my captain doesn’t command otherwise. I pray Florion is alright, I pray that he awakens by that time... But might I ask for permission to find you and talk to you in any happenstance?”</p><p>“Of course,” she said.</p><p>“Until we meet again then.”</p><p>“Until we do.”</p><p>He bowed to her and then was gone.</p><p>And she went to the square instead, and pretended to be merry with the girls, and danced when the weavers came to join them and exchange gossip, but her heart was heavy and her smiles, fake.</p><p>“What <em> are </em>the dreamers dreaming for, truly?” she asked of Mahri, when the latter was substantially drunk on watered cherry spirits.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know!” said Mahri, and waved her hand dismissively. “Some magical, mystical poop. Or some such. Oh, boo-hoo. I say, if they want to truly serve, make them sweep the great hall right after dawn or weed the Temple gardens. Yeesh! Where is that sailor hunk? I want to dance with him!”</p><p>Aoife stepped away, only to bump into Maeve whose eyes were very sober.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” the latter asked.</p><p>“Everything’s peachy, juuuhsht peachy!” Mahri said, hiccuping, and dragged Maeve to the dancefloor, instead.</p><p>Nothing was peachy. Nothing at all.</p><p>And least of all, the fact that she’d dreamed of him that night.</p><p>She dreamt he was descending into the abyss, by way of a thin winding road that was barely wide enough to accommodate him. Mountain Mother towered over him, dark, and formidable, and frightful. Yet he walked sure-footed, and she, despite her fear, stumbled after, this time reaching out and screaming for him to not go. He didn’t have to go. They mustn’t force him. He’s done enough. He’s done enough!</p><p>The first morning bell rang and she jerked awake, shivering.</p><p>Now this, she was almost completely certain, was nothing more than her mind’s doing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>See a grammar hiccup or some punctuation nightmares?<br/>Please help me out by correcting them! </p><p>English is not my native language, so I had to learn punctuation all over again (it differs greatly) but I might still reflexively pepper everything with commas where no commas are needed etc.<br/>Thank you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Dreamer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*What will we do with a sober sailor who is also handsome and sad, early in the morning. Talk to him and hold his hand, naturally. And under no circumstances mention the massive crush we have on his best bro. Let's just assume he's an idiot and can't see it. Ha. Ha. Ha.<br/>*It’s spelled Uri. You green dudes need fewer letters in your names.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“The color of their skin is of various shades of green and grey, the color of their hair most commonly is deep dark green, but I hath encountered specimens with hair black with a blue tint, and hair brown with a green tint, and such. The pupils of their eyes are more oft brown and of silver and amber in color with the color of gold being the rarest, and most prized, as I have only seen specimens with eyes of gold on their drawings and paintings. Do they not know it is the eye color of The Monster? Oh, I pray they do not worship The Monster, but wouldn’t that be too much to hope for.”</em>
</p><p>For a moment Aoife thought she’d cry and drown in self-pity again, but instead she felt oddly resolute. She did go to the Temple clinic right away, yet not to seek help for her accursed <em> weepies</em>.</p><p>“I’m having a lot of trouble falling asleep and then staying asleep,” she told the healer, and it wasn’t hard to believe, as she had circles under her eyes and was paler than usual - and demons know the aldamaari found her way too pale for their tastes, anyway. “I’m exhausted. Could you please give me something strong?”</p><p>Along with calming tea and advice on diet and vigorous exercise, she’s gotten a bottle of the most potent sleeping draft, as the healer has assured her. (“Down the whole bottle and you’ll have at least eight hours of the deepest slumber you’ve ever known, down one gulp, and it’ll make it easier to fall asleep. Come see me if the problem persists. And eat more greens, you hear!”) She tucked the bottle safely away under her cloak. It would wait for an opportune moment or, rather, until she would succeed in convincing herself that surely, even if she was found out, they would write it off as an accident. She searched for the right words and prepared beforehand for any eventuality that might occur if she had to explain herself.</p><p>Aoife knew that Florion still slept.</p><p>It took her two additional days to muster her courage. She made sure to act as normal as she could, going through all the proper motions until the evening at the bathhouse was over and she’d said her goodbyes.</p><p>As luck would have it, the guardswoman was asleep and Aoife snuck past her on tiptoes. She no longer needed a lamp to find her way around this particular passage. That reddish mystical light from the den Florion slept in shone even brighter in complete darkness of the cavernous corridor.</p><p>She sat on the stone bench, took out the bottle and resolutely plunged her right arm into the water. And, almost immediately, a stalk reached out from the blackness of water toward her wrist as if it was a living thing. She rapidly took a swig of potion - it was fairly bitter and made her cringe - and barely had time to close and hide the bottle, and to put her head on her crossed hands again when…</p><p>She was <em> there</em>.</p><p>And heard his voice, and it was calling her by name.</p><p><em>I've missed you, </em>it said.</p><p><em> I've missed you, too, </em>she thought but didn’t say it. Why didn’t she say it, though? Was it not the truth?</p><p>She wanted desperately to go back to his side - if it could be called that - and allow herself to let go, if only for a while, but still her traitorous mind, in its inexorable shame, was searching for a way out.</p><p>She looked around. There was something resembling a glass door in the tall hedge behind her now, made of the same green shards as the ceiling. She knew she could open it and go somewhere but couldn’t see what was behind it.</p><p>“Did I make this?” Aoife half-whispered, or maybe only thought. Regardless, there was no reply, and the door melted back into the growth. She did not want to open it, she did not need it, wherever it may lead. She was already where she wanted to be. Except… she wasn’t, not really. Aoife still stood some distance away from the tree, reluctantly shifting from one foot to another.</p><p><em> I frighten you, </em>he said at last, and it wasn’t a question, but a statement, yet she felt no reproach in it.</p><p>“Not at all. I frighten myself.”</p><p>
  <em> How so? </em>
</p><p>“Because of how I feel about you. You do not know me, and yet I come to pester you. This isn’t right.”</p><p>
  <em> And yet it is. I’ve wanted you to come ever since I first saw you. </em>
</p><p>Since... first... he saw her? And when would that have been? They haven’t met before, it was the very first year that she was allowed to come down to the… Wait, where was she, really? Wasn’t there something important she was supposed to say? Everything seemed so blurry.</p><p>“When did you first see me?” she asked instead.</p><p>
  <em> When you sang to me the first time. I noticed you. But tell me… what are these “demons” that you sang of? </em>
</p><p>“They’re frightful things that hunt sinners and drag them down to fiery pits to be punished forever.”</p><p>
  <em> Are they hunting you? </em>
</p><p>They might as well be, for I surely am a sinner.</p><p>“I think they are imaginary. At least I hope they are. But Florion, how did you know of what I was singing? It was in my native tongue.”</p><p>
  <em> It makes no difference to me here. As long as you know what you’re saying, I will know. </em>
</p><p>There was something else significant she ought to have talked about, or asked.</p><p>“Then you are aware when I come...”</p><p>No, not that. Although, maybe, that too?</p><p>
  <em> I am. Look. </em>
</p><p>And when she turned, she saw her own form, as if behind a translucent veil, sound asleep, with her head on her forearm.</p><p>
  <em> I notice when I want to notice. I ignore them when I want to ignore them. Or when I’m too far away. </em>
</p><p>She thought she remembered part of it then.</p><p>“You <em> are </em>aware then. And you’re not just a dream.” The last vestiges of hope or, rather, fear, of this being an illusion were disappearing.</p><p>
  <em> I’m not a dream. </em>
</p><p>So merciless. Yet it could still be her mind playing tricks on her. Who better knew how to torment her than herself.</p><p>“Then... what are you?” she realised she’s echoing his question from earlier, and it felt bizarre.</p><p>
  <em> I’m the dreamer. </em>
</p><p>“Oh. Florion. What have I done.”</p><p>
  <em> You sang to me. </em>
</p><p>She paused then, biting her lip, and in a moment saw the stalks reach out to her again, and it felt like nothing but a despairing lover stretching out his arms for an embrace. She couldn’t not go to his side and be enveloped by them and press her forehead against the trunk again. It <em> did </em>feel right. It felt like home.</p><p>
  <em> And… How exactly do you feel about me, Aoife? </em>
</p><p>His voice, so low, so deep, was closer now - no, it was all around her, not just sounding from the tree.</p><p>It was louder than her shame, but only slightly. It was still so very, very hard to speak of her feelings.</p><p>“I… I want to be with you. To be touched by you. I want for you to… do… things... to me...”</p><p>
  <em> Things that would make you sing? </em>
</p><p>“Y-yes.”</p><p>
  <em> Things that would give you pleasure? </em>
</p><p>Oh, by the vile demons, imaginary or real.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p><em> Then we feel the same way about each other, </em>he said, and his voice was huskier somehow. Not just outside now, but inside her, too, penetrating her.</p><p>Her footing gave out and she descended to her knees, her eyes shut, her breathing sped up, her open palms sliding down the trunk. This desire felt intoxicating.</p><p>There was a stalk around her things, another - under her arms, the third was coiling over her shoulders and she saw the rounded point of it right in front of her face and - it felt instinctive, primal - opened her flushed lips and licked it and took the very tip of it into her mouth and circled it with her tongue.</p><p>He gasped.</p><p>She pulled her head back momentarily, half appalled by what she was doing. What <em> was </em>she even doing? She ought to have recoiled. She drew closer instead.</p><p>“Where do you feel this?” she asked, stroking the stalk with the tips of her fingers.</p><p><em> Everywhere, </em> he gasped, almost breathless. <em> Oh gods… Please, please do it again. </em></p><p>He was begging. No man has ever begged her for anything, no man has sounded so desperate when addressing her.</p><p>And that did it, she took the stalk in her mouth in earnest, though careful not to gag. The stalk was moving on its own, too, carefully gliding in and out between her lips with the tiniest of motions, and she hummed against it, feeling other appendages ridding her of her meager clothing (or did it simply disappear?), and then it was happening again. His touch everywhere, all over her, so foreign and yet so familiar somehow, but this time she never wanted it to stop, she wouldn’t let it stop.</p><p>Except the next moment the stalk left her mouth with a small ‘pop’ and then it was between her legs.</p><p><em> My turn, </em>she heard him say, with carnal greed in his voice.</p><p>She could barely breathe. Why did he take it out, she thought distractedly, she would take both. She wanted both, one inside of her, one in her mouth…</p><p>
  <em> Lean back, let me see you. Please. I won’t ever let you fall. </em>
</p><p>She did as he asked and heard him groan and felt his eyes - whatever shape they took in this realm - look over her body.</p><p><em> So beautiful, </em>he whispered.</p><p>His face might have appeared on the trunk again - she didn’t know if it did or not. For fear of fainting - or, rather, waking up, she kept her eyes closed, it was all still too much.</p><p>The stalk rubbed against her cunt swiftly once and then the very tip of it was inside of her, and she was instantly gasping for air. The others were supporting her weight or caressing her face and thighs and breasts lightly, never staying anywhere for long, as if wanting to touch all of her, and his voice was whispering something soothing and almost wordless to her.</p><p>“Feels… good,” she managed.</p><p><strong>This isn’t real. This isn't me. Please, Aoife, please. </strong>Hold on, who said that? No one, just a figment of... </p><p><em> And so do you, </em>he breathed, withdrew completely, and pressed in again, still very careful not to go too deep.</p><p>She didn’t quite know what aroused her more: the act itself or his voice whispering to her as if from everywhere, or the gluttonous sounds it made after her every smallest whimper. Her hands hung limp, her fingers, shaking. Finally, she couldn’t hold it any longer. Her one hand pinched her hardened nipple, eliciting a <em> roar </em>from Florion, another darted down and rubbed against her clit, and she felt her own juices overflow around the stalk that was thrusting in and out in an uneven rhythm.</p><p>
  <em> So, so beautiful. Let go, let go. </em>
</p><p>She didn’t last long.</p><p>“Oh, Florion… I think…”</p><p><em>Yes</em><em>, </em>he almost hissed, avidly, speeding up, and right before she peaked, thrusted deep and hard in one stroke, and she felt like she would hoarsen for good or lose her voice entirely, for the sound that came out of her made the imaginary glass ceiling ring.</p><p>It was fast, and it was chaotic, and it felt good, and <strong>this isn't real, Aoife</strong>.</p><p>She fell further back, still supported by two or three stalks - how many of them were there? - and they lowered her slowly to the ground. She found she was unable to move, yet still shuddered slightly when they were caressing her thighs with the gentlest of touches. And only then she found the courage to open her eyes.</p><p><em> I want to do this to you again and again, forever, </em> he said with a whisper as deep as a purr, and <em> then </em>she suddenly remembered, and sat up, her head finally clear of all distractions.</p><p>“But you can’t. You must wake up!” she implored. “Your friend came to get you and… He’s hurting. He misses you.”</p><p>
  <em> I know he is. I miss him too. </em>
</p><p>He must have seen his friend then, or at least felt his presence.</p><p>“Then why can’t you wake up… They… I need you to...”</p><p><em> Someone’s coming for you</em>, he interrupted suddenly, his voice alert. <em> No. No! You have to go, you have to—</em></p><p>Wake up.</p><p>She jerked awake, and pulled at the stalk that naturally clang to her wrist again.</p><p>The dream was still so vivid in her mind and on her body.</p><p>There were footsteps and a swinging patch of lamplight approaching from up the corridor. Aoife prayed she wasn’t flushed, that she’d remember words she’s rehearsed before coming here, but her mind was still so hazy.</p><p>Thankfully, it wasn’t a cohort of militant caretakers - just the guardswoman.</p><p>“Ah, it’s you again,” she said, barely giving Aoife a second glance. “Did you sneak past me earlier or som’n?”</p><p>“I did, I’m sorry”, Aoife said, her voice unusually hoarse, but she guessed she could attribute it to singing to the sleeper if asked. “I didn’t want to wake you.”</p><p>“No worries. He still out of it then?”</p><p>“He is.”</p><p>Why ask if you can see it for yourself? She supposed the guardswoman was just making idle conversation because she felt stupid for being that alert as to come check this chamber.</p><p>“You should go, there’ll be a shift change soon, and all. He won’t mind, promise. ‘Bit late to stay here.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Aoife, still distrustful of her ability to stand on her feet. It might have been a dream, but it was quite realistic, and the effect on her body was obvious. “In a minute.”</p><p>“You wanna say goodbye or som’n?” the guardswoman raised her eyebrows, then chuckled and turned to leave but not before adding: “Hey don’t bother kissing him way too hard, wouldn’t be polite. Plus that stuff’ll only wake fairytale princes from stories, not real life blokes like him here, y’know.”</p><p>Aoife’s never heard of such stories, but immediately decided to look them up whenever she had the chance. She did, however, bend to kiss his brow when she was sure the guardswoman was out of earshot.</p><p>“I’ll come see you soon,” she whispered. “But it would be best if you’d just wake up… Then you could come see me instead…”</p><p>The remainder of the night was restless for her, as she drifted in and out of sleep, each time expecting to find herself by his side, and each time seeing naught but the semi darkness of her small bedroom. Her thoughts, too, were in disarray. Above all, she did not know what to think of the intimacy that’s happened between her and Florion. For all intents and purposes she's made love with a man. But does it count when it is only some sort of a collective dream, and does it mean anything to him? To her, it surely did. It didn’t change the way she felt about him, but the way she felt about herself and her body.</p><p>Aoife’s only voluntary encounters with men boiled down to a few stolen kisses and some awkward fondling she'd exchanged with an altar boy when she was very young, more out of curiosity than earnest want. She was left indifferent and slightly disappointed, and what came after made her stop being curious about kissing men altogether. Sometimes, in bouts of sudden misery, she could still feel the Priory Father’s son’s unwanted groping and his foul breath and that disgusting tongue in her mouth. And then two of his cronies, hitting her under the knees, pinning her down to the floor, and— She dreaded to think of what would have happened if Mother Superior hadn’t barged in then. Surely that man would have raped her, and maybe let his cronies have a go. Instead, they bolted, and she got a few swings of the whip instead. A small price to pay for avoiding something this heinous. She supposed she was even grateful to Mother Superior for this one thing. The Mother must have told on her, for next week Priory Father summoned her and told her she’s to board a ship and preach the only true gospel to the barbarians across the ocean until called upon…</p><p>What about now, though? She’s never before felt the way she now did about Florion, she wanted him, and she supposed she chose it, after actively seeking it. Still. Did it count?</p><p>
  <em> Of course it did, you silly girl. </em>
</p><p>She wanted more. She wanted him to wake. Not for his own sake, not for his miserable friend, but for her. For him to come to her, to stay with her.</p><p>
  <em> So selfish. </em>
</p><p>The next day it was her turn by the pit loom, and she continued working on a simple rug, while the other weavers were choosing what to listen to today. It was Hedricke’s turn to read, and she loved fairy tales best of all.</p><p>“Do you know any stories where princes are awoken from near-deathly slumber with kisses?” Aoife asked, although they’ve seemed to decide upon an educational almanac about predatory animals just now.</p><p>“Hmm. Princes? No, nothing comes to mind off the cuff. I know one with a princess though. It’s called Snow White.”</p><p>“What an odd name,” someone said. “Oh well, suppose as long as it’s not yellow.”</p><p>Somebody chuckled, Hedricke rolled her eyes.</p><p>“It’s quite an odd tale, all in all. And the princess looks very much like our Aoife here. Red lips, white skin, all that. So do I read the almanac or do you want me to tell you about Snow White?”</p><p>“Don’t care, just do get on with it already,” said one of the older women, busy with the intricate silk weave in the back.</p><p>Aoife requested timidly, “I’d love to hear about this princess.”</p><p>Nobody seemed to mind. Hedricke sat down by the shell structure that amplifies sound.</p><p>“Alright then. Once upon a time...”</p><p>It was indeed a very odd tale, she thought while working and listening. Unpleasant, unsatisfying and bizarre. It sounded very human in nature, and not because of the heroine’s skin and hair color. There was way too much treachery, vile envy she’s never noticed in the denizens of Rheske, attempted murder, and, she supposed, succesful murder too, although it did not stick. And what’s with that prince? Did this “snow white” agree to marry him immediately, without learning anything about him? What kind of “true love’s kiss” is it with no love to talk about, if he could easily turn out to be a disgusting creep? With all the worming his tongue inside strange girls’ mouths…</p><p><em> And kissing men’s brows and barging into their dreams to shove their appendages into her mouth and coot, </em>her little inner voice came. She told it to shut up.</p><p>“So then he kissed her and she woke up? Just like that?” she asked when Hedricke was done.</p><p>“I guess,” Hedricke shrugged, then took a swig of honeyed water and reached for the almanac. “But there’s another version where there was no prince at all, instead one of those hairy little peoples performed a mourning dance on her chest while crying profoundly, and the piece of the fruit just… flew out of her throat, and she woke up.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” said Aoife. “I like this version better. Although dancing on a dead body still seems weird.”</p><p>“Told you it was an odd one. Well, where were we… Ah yes—”</p><p>Thankfully, no one teased Aoife about kisses and princes and waking someone up from deep sleep. Nobody knew or cared. The Temple sisters knew her better, she talked to them much more, as it’s way more convenient to chat when you’re scrubbing the floors or weeding the garden together with nothing else to do or listen to. She supposed they also cared for idle gossip way more, as most of the weavers were older and married, and preoccupied with bigger things.</p><p><em> I wonder how they know what princes are, and to write about them, </em>she thought, momentarily, but then the thought was swept aside.</p><p>She had trouble concentrating. She kept coming back to Florion in her mind, and anticipating this evening, unflinching in her resolve to <em> see </em>him again. The sleeping potion, or the dream, or her thoughts, or everything altogether, had made her dizzy, and all of the sword toothed lions, and gebha, and night bears, although fascinating and frightening in nature, sounded so boring when described by the author of this pathetic booklet. He evidently seemed keen on being as dry and as factual as possible. And facts, while useful, don’t make for an entertaining read.</p><p>Most of the weavers agreed, it seemed, including Hedricke.</p><p>“Well, this was a mistake,” she said, stifling a yawn, when the lunch hour came. “I’d better run to the library and get something less somnolent. How about some more of those odd fairy tales then?”</p><p>Again, no one objected.</p><p>They ate some pottage and bread and, as usual, chewed on lamia leaves after. Aoife opted out, brushing her teeth instead, as she liked the aftertaste better. Before long, it was time for work again. Hedricke’s brought back a big book of fairy tales.</p><p>“Just remembered one more with slumber and kisses, here it is,” and she proceeded to read. It was, again, about a girl with white skin, and it, as well, had a lot of heinous things, including envy, evil curses, lies and hiding from wrongdoers in the woods. The girl in this has slept for a... hundred years?! And this time she didn’t even have a name, just “sleeping beauty”.</p><p>“Oh, and yeah, this one has an alternate ending too… Let’s see.”</p><p>In the following minutes Aoife’s face went scarlet with shame and rage, as the alternate ending included the topical prince downright raping the girl and leaving her pregnant with a child who then crawled out of her womb and suckled on her finger, and thus she finally woke up.</p><p>“Well, crap,” one woman said.</p><p>Another muttered, “Must have been awfully dusty in there when she came to.”</p><p>“Whose is that?” asked the third with a bit of irritation in her voice. “They’re really strange, this lot. Give me the jim-jams.”</p><p>“Adronion, I think. All from the same batch, from seven years ago or so,” said Hedricke.</p><p>“That one wasn’t right in the head toward the end”, said the latter weaver. “In love with his own reflection, too. Was so relieved to hear he gave his spot to that younger one and went back to Beruza for good.”</p><p>Aoife didn’t quite understand the phrase in its entirety. Did local book writers inherit and then concede their position? Surely not.</p><p>“Well I’m not running back again, Caileen! You make do with what you get for today. Here, this one’s alright. It’s got eleven brothers turning into birds. No kissing, I think. And the girl’s got a name and is a weaver, too.”</p><p>This one turned out to be the most human of all, and in the worst way imaginable. There was a very recognizable and vile Priory Father in it, as well, although they called him “Archbishop”. Less than half an hour later there was groaning all around. It looked like many now agreed with Aoife’s initial objections.</p><p>“What? Trying to kill her in such a cruel way? And then he married her, again? What’s with all that shite, them marrying the girls they barely know, and that being the end. As if it’s the only good thing that could happen to them!” said one of the weavers.</p><p>The one called Caileen agreed with her.</p><p>“She oughta have turned into a bird, too, and they would all fly and explore the world. Or something of the sort. Told you he was off his dot, that creaker…”</p><p>“Oh come now, it’s not his fault,” said Hedricke amicably.</p><p>“Bloody well is!” Caileen retorted.</p><p>And Aoife nodded in agreement. Surely, the author is responsible for what he puts into words!</p><p>“Get off his back, he’s got some seven grandkids, I bet they love these,” said Hedricke, turning one page and then another.</p><p>“Terrible grandkids then,” grumbled Caileen.</p><p>“If you say so. Right, let’s try this one...”</p><p>Aoife left for the privy then, and when she returned, Hedricke was already starting on yet another one, and the faces of the weavers still showed signs of disgust and irritation. Good thing she went, then. She did not want to know what it was about, such a short one and yet so annoying to them. The next fairytale was reasonably better, she supposed. It was about a magical pot that made sweet porridge out of thin air. No princes, or curses, and even some altruism, and some humor at the end. She’s heard worse. The others didn’t seem to think so, though.</p><p>“How come the other villagers didn’t give them nothing to eat when they were hungry? How is that possible, them being left to fend for themselves?”</p><p>Hedricke shrugged, evidently getting tired of their objections.</p><p>“I did not write this!” she said. “And, I don’t know, maybe the other villagers had nothing to eat as well.”</p><p>“Not possible.”</p><p>“Well, it’s a fairytale! It’s not real! What’s with you today?” Hedricke yelped.</p><p>“It’s not us,” said Caileen. “It’s that loon’s waste of ink.”</p><p>“Go to Beruza and put a real pot on his head and bang it with a stick then for all I care. If he’s still alive, that is.”</p><p>“Suppose I will,” muttered Caileen. “I’m going anyway this summer.”</p><p>“Good for you,” said Hedricke, half exasperated and half laughing. “Alright, one more.”</p><p>The new one went fine with the audience. It did specifically mention <em> human </em> bandits. No one groaned or objected. Although one woman said that it was pointless, and another asked what a “donkey” was (no one really knew, but they surmised by context that it was either a goat or some kind of a small trunkless mammoth, seeing how it was able to carry the others around on its back and yet fit into a shack), and the third noted that the animal musicians should have gone on traveling and playing their tunes instead of staying to live in a forest hut.</p><p>Then someone inquired about Caileen’s prospects for her trip to Beruza, and if she was planning to stay for the Harvest Festival, and she went on a long rant about the many ways in which that Harvest Festival, as compared to the one in Rheske, is overrated, along with the city itself, and that she and her two husbands were just off to see some family in the outskirts. Then someone retorted with their own impressions and how the capital wasn’t overrated at all, and it went on and on, with more participants offering their views; and Hedricke closed the book, yawned, stretched and went to sort her yarn for tomorrow, apparently feeling unneeded.</p><p>Aoife, too, barely listened to the conversation. She’d never been to Beruza and didn’t know anyone there, and wasn’t planning to go, and the endless talk of parents, husbands, children and grandchildren was giving her a hollow feeling in the stomach. Besides, the fact that some aldamaari had more than one spouse, or a spouse of the same sex, still perplexed her and made her feel embarrassed. Not that she was strongly against it. It was just another reminder of their unusual ways, and of how open they were in their desire to love and be loved.</p><p>Then she thought of her mother, and of the song the latter once sang to her while already bedridden. She’s forgotten all about it before today.</p><p><em> “One true love’s kiss to wake the sleeper, one cup of wine to cheer the weeper,” </em>it went.</p><p>Were all these fairytales really human, then? If so, how come she’s never heard a single one before, when living among humans? And what actually <em> is </em>a donkey, anyway?</p><p>Then someone was calling her by name and touching her shoulder.</p><p>“Wha?..” she said, coming to. Aoife realised she’s sitting, unmoving and staring blankly into space while other workers were fixing their shuttles into place and getting up.</p><p>“We’re done for today, dear. Let’s go eat. The market, then?”</p><p>She paused for a moment.</p><p>“Not tonight. I’ll grab some leftovers in the kitchen. ‘Bit tired.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>She ached to go back to the caverns. But it would be too early now, she might bump into one of the caretakers. So, the bathhouse it is, then, she decided while eating in the kitchen alone, but for the kindly cook, who left soon, as well.</p><p>The Temple sisters were all there in the bathhouse, and awfully chirpy, too. Mahri pestered her to sing, and she gave in eventually, and thought that maybe she should sing that song she’s just remembered, but realised she didn’t know all the words. So she opted for a local, cheery one instead, about a witty trickster, successfully talking a lion into giving him his tusks. She couldn’t wait to leave.</p><p><em> What is this, silly girl? What are you after? Some big sweeping romance? The fabled true love and its kisses? </em>Her inner voice resurfaced, and yet again she told it to shut up.</p><p>The wind was howling, down from the Mountain Mother, threatening to knock her off her feet, and it was chilly, too, and she thought she might catch a cold, what with her hair still being wet. She didn’t bother drying it properly, being in such a rush to get away.</p><p>“Ask the questions, ask the questions, ask the questions,” she kept repeating to herself over and over, hoping against hope that this little behest would somehow spill into the dream properly this time.</p><p>
  <em> It will hurt. It will hurt no matter what happens. </em>
</p><p>Shut. Up.</p><p>The steps - the cavern’s mouth - the guardswoman - the corridor - the den - the arm - the potion. “Ask the questions, ask the questions...” The mind dived in.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Dream Sex, Plant Sex</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Questions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl takes untested medication to have plant sex, strongly dislikes the brothers Grimm.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “We had been assigned interpreters who were women with rings on their fingers. After a while, having finally understood that we shall not dishonor ourselves by staying alone in the same room with other men’s wives, the heathenous women mocked us with what must have been very insulting gestures. We were then sent two young boys in their stead, and the method they employed worked thusly: while one took notes, using neither sticks nor feathers dipped in ink, but a rod made of metal, with ink held inside of it and coming out from a sharp end; the other would produce items to show or pieces of thin, transparent parchment (“papero”) with things painted on them in great detail, and would then wait for us to name said things, and would teach us words in his language corresponding to said things, by repetition. Some that he has shown us, however, do not exist, and hence were causes of great confusion, such as a horrible and ugly wooly beast with an enormous appendage in place of a nose and tusks protruding from under it; or flowers of surreal beauty that surely would grow in God’s garden and nowhere else, or other such things I would not know how to describe. It remains unclear if such were their ways of testing us.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her inner voice was very nearly silenced in this realm. But that one phrase remained with her.</p><p>
  <em> Ask the questions. </em>
</p><p>She looked around. The snowdrops were gone. Instead the soil was bare and seemed ploughed through in neat lines, as if it was a fragment of a worked field during seedtime. There were other changes, too: she saw some white kernels thrown along the lines here and there, and came closer to look. The seeds faded right before her eyes as a mirage would.</p><p>She thought she heard a distant thunder then, and the sound of a door being abruptly shut.</p><p><em> Ask the questions, </em>she thought.</p><p>Wait, what questions?</p><p>“Florion?”</p><p>There was no reply.</p><p>“I’ve missed you...”</p><p>There was, again, a sound of thunder and of wind howling far away, as if behind a glass, and then, she thought, some brief muffled weeping. She couldn’t tell who was crying, a man, woman or child. It, too, ended rather abruptly.</p><p>Feeling unwelcome, she thought of leaving and even probed the dream to see if it would allow her to wake up. She thought she could, with sufficient effort, and blamed the sleeping draft. She was still holding on to hope, and what felt like a whole minute went by, and she didn’t go.</p><p>She called him by name again, and the reply finally came sometime later, and the voice sounded unnerved, distracted.</p><p><em> Forgive me, </em> it said. <em> I was not here… Not all of me, </em> and then, as if he felt her intention to leave. <em> Please… Please, stay. </em></p><p>“There’s nothing to forgive, but…” this time she felt like she was really barging on something that wasn’t hers to hear, observe or otherwise witness. “Are you sure?”</p><p><em> I am, yes. I really am glad you came, </em>he said then, and she believed him.</p><p>Yet there it was again, more evident now that it came closer. His voice sounded tired and weary.</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p><em> I am, </em>he said, and this time, she didn’t believe him in the slightest.</p><p>Aoife approached and sat on the ground, her back to the tree. A few tendrils then descended onto her shoulders and wrapped around her gently, as if in a hug. She leaned her back against the trunk and put her arms over them.</p><p>“I heard crying. Who was it?”</p><p>
  <em> No one… You needn’t trouble yourself with it. </em>
</p><p>She sighed.</p><p>“Now it would be your turn to forgive me, Florion, but I’m going to be straight with you. If I am asking a question and you don’t want to answer it, just say you do not want to answer it. I will decide for myself, however, if I want to trouble myself with something or not.”</p><p>He then did something unexpected. He chuckled with genuine amusement. It was lighthearted and cheerful, with not a trace of condescension or sarcasm in it.</p><p>
  <em> Alright, I’m sorry. It’s a fair point which I will keep in mind from now on. The crying was… I do not know for certain. I think it was my mother. And I’m not sure if it’s a memory or just another dream. It’s rather… painful. </em>
</p><p>“Would you tell me about it?”</p><p>
  <em> Are you sure you want to know the painful bits about me? </em>
</p><p>“No, I sang you songs and sat with you and chugged down bitter potions and risked my livelihood simply to shove your appendages into my orifices, and that is it,” she said, sarcastically.</p><p>He laughed, again, if somewhat bitterly this time, and glided one of the lianas across her cheek in a gentle caress. She leaned into it.</p><p>
  <em> Only if you tell me the painful bits about you, as well. </em>
</p><p>She sighed again.</p><p>“It’s a fair deal, I suppose. You first.”</p><p>
  <em> Did you… Did you ask anyone about me? Ouhrion, how much has he told you? </em>
</p><p>“That you were friends from childhood and grew up together in Iquinous, and that you have no family. I assumed they died.”</p><p>
  <em> Right, well, that about sums up the basics. But they didn’t die, I simply don’t know what has become of them. </em>
</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>
  <em> Just… They say I washed ashore one day, stark naked and unconscious. I was about three, from what they could surmise. They’ve sent my portrait to the cities and towns’ Temples, and asked around if there was a child missing, but no one’s claimed me. So then an artisan from Iquinous adopted me and raised me as his own son and taught me his art, and Ouhri was his other apprentice. </em>
</p><p>“I think I could guess what the artisan’s craft was,” she said, looking up.</p><p><em> That so? Go on then, hazard a guess. </em>He seemed to realise she had the correct answer ready.</p><p>“Our dreams reflect our real life, don’t they? And if we find ourselves in an unfamiliar place while dreaming, we search for ways to make it familiar. I think you have succeeded in that. I think he was a glass blower.”</p><p><em> That, he was, </em> Florion answered, with a smile evident in his voice. <em> A glass and mirror maker, and a true artist. Me, I was a decent one for a time. I’m better at other things, after all… But Ouhri was always a lousy craftsman, he never had the patience for it. So in the end he chose the sea instead. I think that in his travels through the years he kept asking around, trying to find my family, or someone, anyone who might know of what’s become of them. No such luck. </em></p><p>She said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it.</p><p>
  <em> I am not sure I should regret what I’ve never known. I would have been content if not for this one dream. It keeps haunting me. In winter, yes, but also for the rest of the year, when I lead a normal life, as it were. There’s sounds, and smells, but nothing else. It’s driving me mad. I keep… I keep trying to examine it when I am lucid as I am right now. But there’s no difference, no matter what I try, the meaning keeps eluding me. Still, I shall keep on trying. </em>
</p><p>“So you’re a stubborn one,” she said, with a grievous half-smile.</p><p>
  <em> That would be an understatement. In fact, my stubbornness is what’s keeping me here, I think. </em>
</p><p>“So you’re staying here to decipher the dream?”</p><p>
  <em> No. That one just comes and goes at will. That’s not what I am here for, and that’s not what’s keeping me from waking up. </em>
</p><p>Ask. The. Questions. Wait, what questions? This. This one. Just ask it.</p><p>“What are you dreaming for, Florion? You and the others?”</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry, Aoife, I cannot tell or even show you, at least not directly. I’ve been forbidden. We all have been. But I think you’re smart, and brave, and something tells me you will figure it out eventually. </em>
</p><p>“I will,” she promised.</p><p>
  <em> I hope you do. </em>
</p><p>“And I hope you will find out what’s become of your family. If it’s something that’d bring you solace. And help explain this dream that torments you,” she said.</p><p>
  <em> Is there something tormenting you? </em>
</p><p>She shook her head unconvincingly.</p><p><em> You promised, </em>he reminded her.</p><p>“I did no such thing.”</p><p>One of his appendages wormed its way under her clothes and tickled her. She recoiled, giggling.</p><p>“Stop it!”</p><p><em> I have a lot of them, you know. And they’re good for many things. As I’ve recently discovered… </em> his voice sounded like a purr again. <em> Could tickle you half to death with them, too. </em></p><p>“You could do a lot of things,” she muttered, blushing slightly.</p><p>
  <em> Oh, and I’m dying to do those things. But for now, I’d rather pretend to be a gentleman, and talk. </em>
</p><p>“Pretend!” she teased, and leaned back into the trunk again. It still felt like home.</p><p>
  <em> So you do think me a gentleman? I’m truly flattered. Well then, if you don’t tell me, I, too, will guess. </em>
</p><p>“Alright then,” she said and proceeded to fondle one of the tendrils with her open palm.</p><p><em> That won’t distract me, you know. I’m very good at staying focused, </em>he said, yet his voice sounded a tiny bit deeper and hoarser than it did moments ago.</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>
  <em> I am, I promise. So, then, my guess would be, you are tormented by the fear of going back. </em>
</p><p>It struck her as uncanny, how easily he hit the mark.</p><p>“How did you...”</p><p>
  <em> It is the fear I have recognized in every single human I’ve met. In Iquinous and beyond. None of them want to go back. And all of them fear being dragged back by force. </em>
</p><p>“Have you met many humans?”</p><p>
  <em> Quite a few. </em>
</p><p>“Why then,” she suddenly remembered, “why did you ask me what I was?”</p><p>There was a pause. It lasted.</p><p>
  <em> I’ve never seen hair like yours. It looks like autumn come alive. And there was something else… Some kind of glow. I truly can’t describe it. My realm is so hard to decrypt sometimes. </em>
</p><p>“I see… So, how many?”</p><p>
  <em> There’s at least a dozen in Iquinous that I’ve spoken too. They’re mostly men, and very burly ones, by human standards, yet at the thought of facing your soldiers or your clergy they all turn into frightened children. </em>
</p><p>“And with good reason. I bet their life here seems like the sweetest dream compared to what they’ve faced back home. I reckon, filth, squalor, poverty and religious persecution don’t make for nice living.”</p><p>
  <em> That’s what I figured… There are many more outside the cities, too. Hundreds in Beruza alone, perhaps more. </em>
</p><p>“Hundreds? Surely not!”</p><p>
  <em> I hear there’s an entire human village southeast of Beruza. All runaways. They’re not exactly making their presence known, and they work very hard to blend in. </em>
</p><p>Isn’t that familiar.</p><p>
  <em> I don’t… What exactly are they running away from? They were always very vague. I suppose they didn’t trust me. Or anyone, really. </em>
</p><p>“In short? Death.”</p><p>He remained silent.</p><p>“But above that, it’s not what they’re running from, it’s what they’re… we’re after. Freedom to be who you want to be, or simply freedom to lead a simple life, with no threat of death and persecution hovering above you. Freedom to believe what you want to believe.”</p><p>
  <em> But I thought you came as a missionary. </em>
</p><p>“I stayed as a weaver. Ah, so you did know about me. I guess it’s like your friend said, all humans counted and sorted.”</p><p>
  <em> Well, yes… One can’t avoid hearing things. Are you saying you choose not to preach your beliefs or you don’t believe what humans believe? </em>
</p><p>“The latter.”</p><p>He was, again, silent, expecting her to continue, or perhaps contemplating.</p><p>She didn’t speak, so they stayed silent for a long time, leaning into each other in the ways available to them in this realm.</p><p><em> What about your family? </em> he finally asked. <em> Where are they? </em></p><p>“Let’s see… No siblings, and my mother had none either. Grandparents, they died long before my birth. Mother died when I was little more than a child. I then got sent into a convent.”</p><p><em> I’m sorry, Aoife, </em> he said, and this time, <em> he </em> truly meant it. <em> What about your father? </em></p><p>“Never knew him. Not sure my mother did, either.”</p><p>
  <em> How so? </em>
</p><p>She so didn’t want to talk about this. But, she supposed, now’s better than later. It will come up eventually. It always did in the past.</p><p>“She was… She worked in a brothel.”</p><p><em> What’s a brothel? </em>He sounded genuinely perplexed, and this, she did not expect at all.</p><p>Wait, which word did she use, and in which language? And was there a word for it in his native tongue at all?</p><p>“It’s a whorehouse,” she said. “A place where women sell their bodies to strangers when they have no other means of survival.”</p><p>
  <em> A… What?! </em>
</p><p>Aoife sighed. She was still unaccustomed to the fact that the aldamaari didn’t have brothels. Or jails. Or executioners.</p><p><em> Forgive me, </em> he said in a moment. <em> But is this… Do lonely, shy men go there to quench their loneliness? </em></p><p>“Quite the opposite. In fact, the most frequent visitors are cruel family men who pretend to be lambs in public and can’t abuse their wives too much for fear of loss of reputation. And women like my mother… Well, as I said, no other means of survival. Does that add to the answer to your question about the runaways?”</p><p>
  <em> It does. How could the others allow it? Why wouldn’t they help them, feed them, teach them useful skills? </em>
</p><p>“Because no one cares. And because human women are regarded as little more than property, to be used by men.”</p><p>
  <em> Not possible. </em>
</p><p>He sounded truly horrified. She then chuckled bitterly, remembering the previous day, and how one of the weavers said the exact same thing after hearing the tale of the magical pot.</p><p>About half a dozen of tendrils have enveloped her in a tight hug, almost a cocoon.</p><p>
  <em>When I asked, I didn’t expect, well, this. I realise I know so little about modern humans… </em>
</p><p>“And would you like to learn more?”</p><p><em> No, </em> he answered bluntly. <em> But I would like to know more about you. </em></p><p>She sighed, relieved. She really wasn’t in the mood to talk about growing up in a whorehouse among other illegitimate children, or noticing bruises blooming on her mother’s body that the latter tried to hide from her, and not being able to do anything about it. Or retell the story of every scar she’s gotten afterwards at the convent. Or of the public executions, and of wars, and of poverty, and of constant filth and stink. Talking about it all didn’t bring her any comfort. Not here, not now at least.</p><p>“Good, because I wouldn’t want to tell you. I’ve had enough of dwelling among humans to last me a lifetime. May I ask you something different instead?”</p><p><em> Anything, </em>he whispered.</p><p>“So tell me. How would an aldamaari man approach someone when he’s seeking company, and it’s not Boaldaen?”</p><p>
  <em> Well… You invite them to dance during Worship day festivities, and ask if they would like to bed you. </em>
</p><p>Ah, their famed bluntness concerning matters of the flesh, and the complete lack of shame which she wished she’d possessed.</p><p>
  <em> Or they approach you of their own volition. Or a friend might help you if you’re young and shy, and ask for you. And if the two of you wish to continue seeing each other after, you talk it through. If not, well then. You do the deed and thank one another and go your separate ways… That’s how it works. O-o-or, I guess, you could go into deep slumber, and then wait for a beautiful songstress to bring you flowers, and to come into your dreams and then you could shove appendages into… orifices. That works, too, or so I hear. </em>
</p><p>Aoife bit him, jokingly, as a playful cat would. In her mind, she was thanking him for diffusing the tension. She wasn’t usually able to do it so easily, and once it came to the <em> painful bits </em>about her and all humans, it made her moody for hours, if not days.</p><p>“And I suppose you’ve done the former a lot.”</p><p><em>Didn’t have the time. More often than not I would miss the Worship day events entirely, working on some big project with my father. So between my apprenticeship and… Well… </em> he said somewhat morosely and paused for a moment. <em> I was called to serve at a very early age. </em></p><p>She felt a pang of jealousy, but dismissed it. Sex was treated as a casual thing by the aldamaari. This - the talking - meant much more. She also understood with clarity now why Mahri wanted to find Ouhrion at the festivities so badly, and maybe even why she'd gotten drunk beforehand. ‘Young and shy.’</p><p>
  <em> But! There was a book I found in the anatomy section. And let us say it was my favourite for a lo-ong time. I believe it was called "On intimate sexual acts betwixt willing participants of up to four - open parentheses - diagrams included - close parentheses". </em>
</p><p>She laughed out loud. “You're joking!”</p><p><em> Oh no, I'm quite serious. I even have it stashed somewhere around here… </em> By “here” he must have meant his mind. <em> Dreadfully appalling read but the pictures were very educational. I've stained that copy something awful. </em></p><p>The meaning of his last phrase took a few moments to sink in, but when it did, she burst out laughing yet again.</p><p>
  <em> I love your laughter, it’s such a respite. </em>
</p><p>The implication was that he was burdened by something, and in her heart, she knew he was, but decided not to ask about it again. At least not directly.</p><p>“Say, Florion?”</p><p>
  <em> Yes, Aoife? </em>
</p><p>“I have another question. What were those seeds I saw on the ground around, well, you?”</p><p><em> Oh, they’re… </em> she thought he sounded somewhat shy, and it didn’t seem like him at all. Then again, how much did she actually know about him? <em>They’re an ongoing project. I need some time on them. I’ll show you the next time you come here. You will come, won’t you? </em>he suddenly asked.</p><p>“Of course I will. I know you know I’d rather you just woke up but if you don’t until tomorrow…”</p><p>
  <em> I’m… sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think I will. I need more time. </em>
</p><p>“And you’re not going to tell me what for,” she stated.</p><p><em> I’m sorry, </em> he repeated. <em> I can’t. I’ve sworn an oath. </em></p><p>“Well<em> I </em> didn’t swear no oath.”</p><p><em> So then you will actively try to discover the truth? </em>he asked, somewhat amused.</p><p>“Bet on it.”</p><p>
  <em> Will you promise to tell me of your guesses along the way? </em>
</p><p>“Now why would I do that?”</p><p>
  <em> Let us say I’m interested in the thought process. And want to laugh at how poorly this secret is kept, and who cracks first, if they do. </em>
</p><p>“Hm, I don’t know. If you and your lecherous snakes behave.”</p><p>He tickled her again.</p><p>“Shoo, shoo!” she yelped while laughing and squirming around.</p><p>
  <em> Too late for that. The snakes, they’re angry. </em>
</p><p>Aoife turned and placed a loud kiss on the bare trunk.</p><p>“I like being with you,” she said. “I mean… I liked the <em> lecherous </em>part, too, but I feel we could really get along if you...” she trailed off, and swallowed her last, rather evident, words.</p><p>
  <em> And here I was looking for a way to tell you the exact same thing. And you made it sound so easy. </em>
</p><p>“So,” she said, after some hesitation. “As it were, we've danced the dance and we've done the deed. Do you want to talk it through?”</p><p><em> I want to be with you, </em> he said simply. <em> Do you feel the same? </em></p><p>“I do. But for that you’d have to wake up.”</p><p>
  <em> Would I, now? </em>
</p><p>“Yes, you would,” she insisted.</p><p>
  <em> I’m… working on it. </em>
</p><p>She supposed she had no other choice but to accept this answer as the best possible one for the moment.</p><p>“Alright. I suppose I do have other questions that aren’t related to your oath...”</p><p>
  <em> Then ask away. </em>
</p><p>“Will you tell me of Iquinous?”</p><p>
  <em> What would you like to know? </em>
</p><p>“Everything. I want to know everything there is to know about your people and about you. And I promise, I’m not a spy.”</p><p>He chuckled.</p><p>
  <em> If you were, with your sincerity I’d say you’re a good one. Well, then… </em>
</p><p>He told her of a city that seemed so different and so much more lively than Rheske, the latter being, after all, a sacred town inhabited mostly by women. Of how it had a warmer climate, much more industry and noise, and of a recent wondrous invention called moonlight towers thanks to which they no longer needed lighthouses or sooty street lamps. Of paved avenues, and of smithies clanging, and of a bay that held the largest shipyard on the continent.</p><p><em> I sometimes go there when I dream, </em> he said. <em> Much more often than other places. </em></p><p>Aoife felt that despite his earlier words, he still wanted to know about the human cities, so she, in turn, carefully told him of their concentric architecture, and of the decent things that they did have instead of what they lacked. The list wasn’t long, but it wasn’t too painful.</p><p>There were no <em> painful bits </em> at all. He had recounted his childhood and numerous amusing stories that came with it, and with his apprenticeship, and she kept willfully silent about hers, but did tell him of songs and skills she learned after coming to his homeland, and what new foods she tried, and which were now her favourite.</p><p>“It surely must be after midnight already,” she finally said, a tiny sting of worry in her mind. They must have talked for hours, and there was a change of shift. Won’t the night guardswoman whom she hasn’t met yet, be suspicious?</p><p><em> It hasn’t been that long, </em> he said. <em> I’ve slowed down time. </em></p><p>“You can do that?!”</p><p>
  <em> To a degree. It is my realm, after all. </em>
</p><p>“So can you hasten it, too?”</p><p>
  <em> In a way. </em>
</p><p>Would she have given that power up to willingly awaken and go back to a normal, regular life? To be able to control the flow of time, to visit faraway lands, and to do whatever it is he was doing that he swore an oath not to tell a word about… Even she herself felt bad leaving here. But then the implication hit her. They were together now in this realm, and maybe it didn’t feel so enchanting when he was all alone in it. And he altered time to spend more of it with her, to embrace her in whatever way was available to him now, and to talk of inconsequential things.</p><p>Was she correct in her initial assumption?</p><p>“Florion, are you… lonely here?”</p><p><em> Yes, </em> he said simply. <em> As any observer hidden from the crowd below would be. </em></p><p>As a lone god would be, staring down at his flock. She closed her eyes and thought that in the waking world her eyes were shedding tears right now. For him or for herself, she did not know.</p><p><em> I do not want you to go… </em>he said, but she realised she must, that it’s almost time, and his tone was the surest indication.</p><p>“I do not want to go. But she’ll still be here soon. That woman that’s guarding you.”</p><p><em> Yes, she will, </em> he wistfully agreed. <em> If you’re discovered… I do not know what would happen, but I’d rather not take the risk. </em></p><p>“Neither would I.”</p><p>She didn’t know how to find the will to go.</p><p>
  <em> I’ll miss you. </em>
</p><p>She wasn’t sure but she thought he <em> pushed </em> her out.</p><p>Aoife also thought she saw a change in his unmoving form when she opened her eyes. As if there was a little more life. As if he was a little more awake, a little closer to a living man than a pale green statue.</p><p>She yanked the stalk out of her wrist and nearly cried out, because this time there were two types of pain, and only one of them was physical.</p><p>Something tiny was floating in the water right next to Florion’s neck. It was white and verdant green, contrasting radically with the deep dark of the waters and cream-color of elanthie stalks: a seed, already sprouted, she realised, and fished it out, and hid it in the pocket closest to her heart.</p><p>And then she heard someone approaching, merely moments later. Perhaps Florion heard or felt the guardswoman even before she did.</p><p>This time Aoife was a little more ready for her. She thought she looked almost innocent, sitting on the edge of the bench, hugging her lyre. Upon seeing the guardswoman, she nodded courtly and started wrapping it in the usual linen sheet to put it in her bag.</p><p>“You again. You never sing to me, suppose ‘cause I’m not as handsome as he.”</p><p>In the ensued silence she was hyper aware of every single sound and movement. A droplet of water falling. An insect, inexplicably trapped in the caverns, buzzing faintly somewhere nearby. The woman’s finger tapping a button on her jacket.</p><p>“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” said Aoife innocently. “I’ll sing a few tunes to you when I get back.”</p><p>And just as she was about to put her instrument back in the satchel, the guardswoman did something unexpected, namely darted forward, faster than the wind, and <em> grabbed </em>her wrist with force. It hurt. It was, Aoife realised, that very wrist that now bore elanthie marks: some fading, and one very fresh and with a drop of blood drying on it still. She tried to yank it back, no luck. The guardswoman bent down, and raised the lamp to see better.</p><p>“What is this, now?”</p><p>Aoife pulled her arm again, this time succeeding.</p><p>“Nothing. I hurt myself with a loom shuttle.”</p><p>It was the very first lie that came to mind, and it wasn’t a good one, and the guardswoman knew it.</p><p>“Half a dozen times, have you?” the latter said, smirking.</p><p>Nevertheless, the guardswoman didn’t touch her again, and even pointed at the exit, and added only:</p><p>“Run along now.”</p><p>And run, she did, her heart pounding into her ears. How could she have been so stupid?! Of course they didn’t need to catch her in the act, all they needed was to see the dots along her vein once.</p><p>Aoife barely slept throughout the rest of the night. Images of what awaited her, what punishment she’d have to endure for what she’s done, haunted her mind as she tossed and turned. For all she knew, Aoife had committed a crime, and she still didn’t know what happened to the criminals here. Maybe they put them all to death? That would explain the lack of jails, but not the lack of executioners. Exile, maybe? Exile was even worse, because then she’d surely kill herself. But, she guessed, not before attempting to find that human village Florion mentioned. Florion… Whatever they’d do to her, she won’t be able to see him again, and that, surprisingly, hurt the most.</p><p>Before dawn she was already up, staring at the lone tiny pot with the mysterious seed planted in it the night before. What if they come for her right now? Like the humans used to do, with their church raids under the cover of night? She felt so numb it barely made sense to move, and so stiffened and scared she couldn’t even cry. Being as stubborn as she was, Aoife forced herself to get up and make a mug of tea that she warmed her palms against while circling her abode for what she felt like might be the last time. She loved it so much, loved it to bits. It was truly the first and probably the last place she could call her own. Her small bedroom with a mighty steel frame of a real bed, covered by the most comfortable mattress and pillows she’s ever slept on. The hall that’s combined a kitchen, a sitting and dining room, with her favourite chair by the hearth where she’d spent so many happy, quiet evenings reading or playing her instrument. Even the washroom, which had more marble in it, probably, that the entirety of the human capital’s church.</p><p>At a point she heard the creaking of the pedaled carriage near the front door, followed by a knock. “They’ve come for me,” she thought, and once again wasn’t able to move a muscle.</p><p>“Oi!” came a voice from behind the front door. “You sleepin’? Your stuff’s here. I mean it’s not but… Mine’s here. With me, that is.”</p><p>It was unmistakably the voice of Lensi, nicknamed the Frog, the courier boy who’d brought household rations every fortnight. He was supposed to come today, as always, yet she’d forgotten all about it. Right on time, too. Surely a teenage boy who delivers soap wouldn’t be the one to drag her to… anywhere?</p><p>Aoife got up and opened the door. There was no one there but the courier. Lensi was lithe and agile and almost as tall as a grown aldamaari man, at over seven feet, but his face still looked very childish and, at the moment, slightly irritated.</p><p>“Where’s your salt box and all?” he asked. “Come on, come on, ain’t got all day.” That’s why they called him the Frog. Due to the nature of the machine he was wheeling, he “hopped” in a mostly straight line from one house to another, stopping precisely in front of the door, and hated having to double back because the latter would mean turning the whole contraption back uphill while it was still heavy with cargo.</p><p>Aoife realised that while drowning in dread, she’s forgotten not only what day it was, but momentarily lost a habit of doing what she’s been doing automatically for almost two years: put out the empty boxes, so the courier can fill them and move on.</p><p>“I am so sorry, Lensionas,” she muttered and darted back into the house to bring everything. Her legs felt a bit wobbly but she managed.</p><p>Lensi tapped his own mighty foot all the while, clearly impatient, and once she was back at the door, her arms full of boxes and glass jars that she miraculously managed not to drop, he turned back to his cart. “This here’s the clothespins and the new brush you ordered last time.” he said, unloading the items from the cart while she put the containers in line and opened them.</p><p>“Thanks.” The hairbrush she asked for two weeks ago because she intended to let her hair grow as long as it possibly could… Would she need it anymore?</p><p>“Right then. First, your fuel.” he carefully unloaded a crusty fireproof bag inside which clanked the small red-brown circles of flamestone. One of her favourite miracles of the aldamaari: a single little stone burned immensely bright and hot for hours; it barely smoked and could easily substitute a whole sheaf of logs.</p><p>Lensi then took out his scoops that he carried tucked into his belt as if they were a set of daggers, and got to work, which in his case was always accompanied by outloud stocktaking. “Your ration of soap. Lamia. Tooth powder. Salt mix. Lavender. Opy milk. Got any requests for the next delivery?” he asked, while still working.</p><p>She was still frozen, and did not register his words right away.</p><p>“Well? Do ya?”</p><p>“What? No. No, I’m good. Thanks.”</p><p>“Whaddaya grow?”</p><p>“Uhm. Tomatoes and herbs,” said Aoife absentmindedly. Everyone grew something in their backyards. Some only had space for tiny vegetable and herb gardens like she did, some - usually families - planted fruit trees and berry bushes, too.</p><p>He nodded and added a few paper envelopes filled with seeds.</p><p>Would they deliver the usual goods to someone who was meant to be killed or exiled? In this particular situation maybe humans would… To lull their victims into a false sense of security. She shouldn’t feel safer now. It’s not like the household items can’t be repurposed when she’s thrown out.</p><p>“Right, okay. Now this next one’s new. Delivering to anyone who wants it from now on. You do your own laundry, no? I mean, judging by the pins...” Lensi passed her a new jar made of thick glass with a lid held in place by a metal latch. It was filled with some kind of thick slimy liquid. “This here’s soap for them laundries.”</p><p>“Uhm… Excuse me?” said Aoife, still very much distracted by her thoughts.</p><p>“For bed linens and all. Don’t wash your face with it or anything, stuff’s strong. Maybe has lye in it or some such. Anyway, you add one scoopful to the washbowl, with water, ‘course, you stir it, you leave the laundry in it for a couple hours, you rinse it off, and it does… things,” that last one had a slight air of reverence about it.</p><p>“Things,” echoed Aoife.</p><p>“Yeah!” said Lensi. “I swear I upended a whole bowl of vasca root soup on my shirt the other day. And then me mum washed it with this here soap and it just… came off.”</p><p>“Alright,” said Aoife. Clearly, Lensi was disappointed with her lack of amazement.</p><p>“Just take it,” he said, plunging the jar into her hands. “Oh, right, almost forgot, there’s also a letter for you.”</p><p>She knew he also delivered mail, in fact it was his main job on most days, along with gathering unneeded compost a couple of times a week, but she’s never gotten any mail. Her heart sank immediately. It could only be from humans. No one here would send her a letter. Unless… Unless it was her sentencing.</p><p>She stood, frozen and pop-eyed, and in a few moments Lensi got so exasperated that he just dropped the envelope over the jars and cans filled with his deliveries and hopped back on his machine.</p><p>“You maybe get some more sleep,” he muttered. “Alright then, bye.”</p><p>She couldn’t even squeeze out a “bye” in return, and once he was gone, sank to her knees next to the pile of deliveries. She could see the envelope’s back, it looked new, unhandled, so surely it wasn’t tucked away on a ship for a month. It was also unsealed, which was a dead giveaway as well. Humans sealed their letters, and one from the Convent would have a thick wax seal on the back.</p><p>There was nothing else to do but to open it. Aoife took it with her shaking hand and turned it. It only had her name on it, nothing else. And the name wasn’t “Eve”. And not in the human alphabet. So, it was most certainly not from the Convent. She didn’t quite understand anymore, what was worse. She heaved a long sigh and opened it.</p><p>
  <em> “My dearest child, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Come see me at your earliest convenience. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Much love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Drifeo.” </em>
</p><p>Aoife turned the thin paper slip around, but there was nothing else. She knew the handwriting, it was unmistakably a note from the High Priestess. And it had love on it. Was it some kind of a farce? A mockery? But it had love on it… And it didn’t even say “see me today” or “see me immediately”. It said “at your earliest convenience”. Surely, if they meant to…</p><p>Aoife grinded her teeth and swore loudly. Enough. Enough self-pity, enough dread! She still had a chance to talk her way out of a sticky situation by playing the “naive outlander” card, despite how much she didn’t want to do it, because she desperately wished to make everyone forget she was one. Her only choice was to gather her strength and face the music, and that, she would do, and her <em> earliest convenience </em> was right now.</p><p>Sipping the now cold tea and sifting through her thoughts for a few minutes, she tried to calm herself down and to think rationally. The message helped somewhat. The High Priestess was never unkind, or unfair, or rude, but she was known to be somewhat stern when displeased, yet her message didn’t sound displeased in the slightest. The best way now would be to deny nothing, be remorseful and ask for forgiveness. Drifeo always forgave. Although this whole ordeal isn’t a broken vase… <em> Enough! </em></p><p>She marched to the Temple resolutely, her head held high, even though her feet still didn’t feel that steady, so she thanked the unknowable gods she didn’t quite believe in for the fact that the road to the Temple from her home went slightly downhill. Someone waved at her on the way, she waved back. Someone wished her a happy morning, she wished them one in return, but all along kept her eyes forward. Who knows what’s coming, but she would still face it with dignity. Even if it was the last thing she had left.</p><p>The doors to the High Priestess’s office in the library were open, and through the door she saw Drifeo at her desk, sorting through some papers and, upon coming closer, even heard her hum a tune under her breath in the silence of the library. The woman didn’t appear to be in bad spirits at all. She looked her normal kindly self. That helped, too. Aoife lingered in the doorway, and the High Priestess noticed her and smiled.</p><p>“Already here, dear?” Drifeo stood up, walked round the table and kissed the absolutely stiff and numb Aoife on the brow. Surely, if she was planning to kill or exile her… <em> Enough! </em></p><p>“Yes, my lady,” Aoife mumbled.</p><p>“Why rush? No matter, sit down, sit down. Would you like something to eat?”</p><p>Aoife sat. Immediately, the High Priestess put a bowl of nuts and dried berries in front of her. It was destined to remain untouched, Aoife thought.</p><p>Drifeo sat in the chair opposite her, folded her hands and smiled warmly. Was that mockery, as well?</p><p>“Are you quite alright, dear?”</p><p>Aoife swallowed loudly. Her heart was beating like a drum and she wasn’t quite sure if at the moment her face was scarlet or, instead, turning completely white with dread. Either way, surely she didn’t look well.</p><p>“I’m… fine.”</p><p>She promised herself she wouldn’t lie, and yet lied straight away. What a disgrace.</p><p>She lingered for a moment before reaching forward and fishing a large peeled walnut out of the bowl.</p><p>“You’re not in trouble, I promise you.”</p><p>Upon hearing these words, Aoife crumbled and crushed the nut in her palm into an oily mush.</p><p>“I’m… not?”</p><p>“No,” said the High Priestess. “Of course you’re not.”</p><p>Just like this? All the hours she’d spent this night, shaking in fear, all the scenarios she ran in her head, and she gets this? Maybe, just maybe, it was a coincidence. Maybe the High Priestess called her here for something else, and didn’t know what had transpired last night. If so, Aoife ought not lie anymore.</p><p>“Did you...” she swallowed, before managing to speak again. “Have you spoken to the guardswo...”</p><p>Drifeo dismissed her question with a wave of a hand.</p><p>“I did. You’re not in trouble,” she repeated. “And, honestly, guards that guard doors and passageways should remain at said doors and passageways instead of wandering around and prying. If she’s that bored, she’d better get a book or look for another occupance. Now, what I wanted to talk to you about is...”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t hear her next words. She felt as if a ginormous weight had been lifted off her, a weight she didn’t fully realise her shoulders bore. She closed her eyes, nearly sinking into the floor with relief. She felt faint.</p><p>“Dear?”</p><p>The voice came, ringing, as if from a crack in the door. With it, all other sounds came back, all at once. She heard the birds chirp behind the open window, and a broom woosh, monotone, somewhere behind her in the halls.</p><p>“Yes, my lady. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… Could you please repeat what you just said?”</p><p>She thought of how bizarre this whole situation was, and of how she hasn’t quite unlearned to judge it by human standards. A slightest offence at the Convent would earn her the whip, and nobody would even see into the situation properly or try to find out if she was truly at fault. And yet here was a clergywoman who supposedly held power, kissing her, offering her food, assuring her she’s not in trouble. Did the aldamaari ever treat her as humans did? Beside that slightly irritated woman in the docks, no one was so much as even rude to her. She’d have to make more effort to understand them, to understand what motivated them and what was verily right and wrong in their eyes, if she ever wanted to truly blend in.</p><p>“Your instrument, dear. What’s it called?”</p><p>“The lyre.”</p><p>“Ah, yes, that’s right. Now, what I was asking, do you know how to play any other instruments?”</p><p>“Well...” Aoife hesitated. “I can play the flute a bit, too.”</p><p>The latter, she was taught before the Convent, by one of the women at the brothel, who liked to intersperse her teachings with some allegedly dirty jokes Aoife didn’t quite understand at the time. She hasn’t practiced in a while. She preferred to play and sing, and not just play.</p><p>“Oh, how marvelous!” the High Priestess clapped her hands once. “I love the flute! What else?”</p><p>“That’s it, my lady.”</p><p>“And can you read and write sheet music, too?”</p><p>“I can, yes.”</p><p>One of the very few good things, along with the lyre, that she was taught by the church.</p><p>“That’s splendid! Now, would you like to learn the harpsichord or the pipe organ?”</p><p>“I...”</p><p>
  <em> What?! </em>
</p><p>“One of the instruments that’s played by way of keys, dear,” the High Priestess offered, helpfully.</p><p>Yes, she knew quite well what keyboard instruments were; what astonished her or, rather, kept on astonishing her, was the tone of this whole visit that she’d expected to end in her death of exile, and yet it was now paradoxically turning into some idle chatter about music.</p><p>“I guess,” she muttered, perplexed to no end.</p><p>“Why don’t you try and then see if you like it. You know the woman that plays during service, yes? Caileen is her name.”</p><p>“I know her, my lady. We are weavers together.”</p><p>“Well that’s splendid. Now what I want you to do is talk to her and agree on the time when she could give you lessons. I’ve sent her a message warning her she might have a new student.”</p><p>“I will, my lady.”</p><p>“Good, good. Before you go, dear, one more thing. You’ve been visiting the boy, yes? In the caverns?”</p><p>Florion was by no definition a “boy”, but Aoife nodded. Her heart started to treacherously flutter in her chest yet again, and just about a minute after she’d calmed down. She realised then that she was very much exhausted by her own fear.</p><p>“And you are still worried about him?”</p><p>She nodded again.</p><p>“Then don’t be,” said Drifeo, and her tone was as kind and as reassuring as possible. “As you no doubt heard me tell his friend, he will be fine, I promise you. But if you want, you may continue visiting him.”</p><p>Aoife nodded yet again, and then managed to mutter a “thank you”.</p><p>Drifeo nodded in response and got up. Aoife got up too, her legs feeling slightly foreign.</p><p>“Will that be all, my lady?”</p><p>“Yes, dear,” her eyes darted down to the untouched bowl of nuts and she shook her head and tsked quietly. “Go eat some breakfast with the girls. And then off to your duties.”</p><p>In the next empty hall of the library, quite out of earshot of everyone and everything, Aoife, slid down the nearest wall and hid her face in her hands. She felt relieved immensely, yes, but also confused, perplexed and, but for a moment, the last hour felt more like a dream to her than the hours she’d spent with Florion. In comparison, the latter seemed much, much more real.</p><p>She wasn’t hungry. In fact the very thought of food made her nauseous. She needed a distraction. Lifting her head, she looked around the library, and vaguely remembered something she’d heard last night, in the dream. If she was to be completely honest with herself, she still thought that book was a joke, and after some quarter of an hour in the anatomy section she nearly gave up, but then…</p><p>“Well I’ll be damned,” said Aoife out loud, staring at the heavy volume in her hands. “...willing participants of up to four. What even is...”</p><p>Luckily, there was no one around to hear her, and she was still too ashamed to check out a book like this and take it home with her, so she tucked the foliant away under her cloak and went to read it in what used to be her “study”: a desk in a remote corner of the library, by the window facing south, between two stuffed bookshelves, that she’d barely visited recently. She used to spend all day here, nearly every day, learning her letters, repeating words over and over, writing them again and again until they sank in. One of the Temple sisters usually sat with her at this desk, patiently guiding her and correcting her pronunciation and grammar. Now it was empty but for some pens in a glass and a thin layer of dust. The last one, she felt a little bad about.</p><p>She immediately forgot everything about the dust, and her nostalgia, and the ordeal she just went through, once she opened the book. The pictures were quite <em> educational </em> indeed, although, seeing the exceedingly detailed drawings, she became immediately sure that Florion had used the word ironically, in a bout of half-amused self deprecation, because they were, in fact, pornographic, and there were no two ways about it.</p><p>The text she paid no mind to, as she was too distracted by them. The first one simply showed a man and a woman embracing, their clothes on. On the next one, they were kissing. But the further it went, the more lewd it became, and Aoife nervously looked around while on page twelve, and then looked around again, just to be sure, while on page eighteen. Thankfully, this part of the library was completely empty at this hour.</p><p>“Sweet… mother... of mercy,” she whispered, entranced by page twenty six and completely oblivious to the fact that she just spoke the humans’ language, and uttered a half-curse, half-blessing they used so often at the Convent.</p><p>There was a man on page thirty two, on his knees, naked, bound and gagged, with whip marks on him, and a stern looking woman standing over him holding a knout. This image, she didn’t care for; in fact, it made her frown. She turned the page again. In the next picture, the woman was on her knees instead, blindfolded, hands bound behind her back, lips open and welcoming the man’s cock into her mouth which he helpfully guided in, holding it at the base with his hand. This one, she stared at for a full minute until she realised she’s salivating.</p><p>Page sixty-four, where a woman, clearly in ecstasy, was held between two men, and the artist was very careful and meticulous in showing the details of how they were taking her, broke Aoife completely, and she shut the book, raising a plume of dust around it. She wanted to plunge herself into cold water. She wanted to find a hiding place and masturbate until she couldn’t stand. She wanted to go to Florion and ask him, directly, to do this exact thing to her <em> right now</em>, and maybe all the other things, too. The latter wish lasted for half a second before she recoiled momentarily at her own shamelessness. Reluctantly and with great effort, she chose to go and get some water to at least plunge her face into. But not before sneaking another peek into the book and darting across a page where, incidentally, her eyes fixed upon the text and she read a few lines.</p><p>“To unfortunate men who have trouble holding their seed in for longer than a minute, may the author suggest pulling your balls down thusly (see diagram) and do the following breathing exercise (see subsequent diagram). On why self confidence and peace of mind is very important in such matters, see p.87.”</p><p>Aoife laughed nervously, and then remembered what Florion said about how it was a “dreadfully appalling read”. To calm herself down, she then turned the book to see who the author was. However, either he or whoever printed it, probably knew of the writer’s limited talent for descriptions, as the artist was the only one credited. It wasn’t a name she knew but it was unmistakably a woman’s name. Humans would have killed a woman if she drew so much as one of these, yet here it was, printed, published, publicly available, and right next to a book on diets for people with different types of indigestion.</p><p>She hid the book in the desk’s drawer and went for a breath of cool sea air, too, if the water won’t help, and then returned to her duties, volunteering to dust the library today, to which no one objected, although the Temple sisters asked her to help in the garden during her next shift, as it was almost time for planting and they had their hands full. She went back to check on the book several times, as if it might disappear, or be gone, while not knowing exactly why she didn’t just return it to its shelf.</p><p>And at the end of the day, having argued with herself for hours, Aoife did the unthinkable: she went to the desk of the librarian on duty and, hands shaking and knees weak, asked if she could check the book out. The woman did the unthinkable too: she nodded, wrote down the title and date in her barn book, asked Aoife to sign her name, and immediately returned to mending the cover of some large foliant, without a single change to her expression, or a single mocking word or sound.</p><p>Having left the book under her pillow, she still kept thinking about it, going up, and was so flushed that not even a sleeping draft, she thought, would knock her out.</p><p>It was the first time she was actually doubtful about her routine, and not because of what happened yesterday and in the morning, but because she was sure she’d bring it up with Florion and surely, <em> surely, </em>it would lead to…</p><p><em> I want it to, </em>she thought, shutting her mocking inner voice, the herald of her shame.</p><p>There was a different woman at the entrance this time, the one that usually was on duty in the mornings.</p><p>“Where’s...” Aoife began, and realised that she didn’t even know the other guardswoman’s name.</p><p>“Took a few days off,” said the lady, barely looking up from her book. “Can you leave me with the lamp? I need it.”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>There was enough of the potion to last her two nights, including today. She’d have to get more or learn to fall asleep here on her own if he didn’t wake up… She was quite wrong about the potion. It knocked her out the same way it always did, and when she found herself in the grove, she was, unfortunately, still thinking about the book.</p><p><em> Oh thank the gods, </em> his voice immediately came. <em> Are you alright? Are you in trouble? </em></p><p>She ran to the tree and threw her arms around it. The lianas hugged her in return, and she heard a sigh of relief.</p><p>“I’m alright,” she said, against the smooth surface of the trunk. And yes, oddly enough, she was. She briefly related the events of the morning, and he didn’t interrupt her until she was done, and let him go.</p><p>
  <em> Huh. </em>
</p><p>“Do you know something I don't?”</p><p><em> I might, </em>he said, very evidently amused now.</p><p>“And you are not going to tell me,” she not so much as asked, but said assertively.</p><p>
  <em> Oh, I most certainly will not. </em>
</p><p>“Well, what a bastard you are then!” she said with a smile on her face.</p><p><em> I’ve been called worse, my treasure, </em>he answered, and then chuckled in earnest.</p><p>He called her "my treasure"… In jest, perhaps, or as a distraction, but it still felt so warm.</p><p>And whatever he knew clearly didn’t cause him any worry, which meant it’s something good or at the very least decent. She could leave it be for now. She could also try and talk about something else and not about the book but she couldn’t help it.</p><p>“I found the book you mentioned yesterday.”</p><p><em> And so did I, </em>he said, and sure enough, it appeared right before her. She reached for it absentmindedly, before she could even think of stopping herself.</p><p><em> Did you enjoy it? </em>he murmured.</p><p>“I did,” she smiled, flushed, and ran her fingers down the cover. It was warm to the touch.</p><p><em> Even the text? </em>There was a good-natured sneer in his voice.</p><p>“Didn’t get around to that masterpiece much. Distracted,” she whispered, and opened it on a random page. Oddly enough, her gaze stumbled upon the text alone because the pictures were missing.</p><p><em> I think I might have misremembered some lines, </em> he said. <em> Or completely forgotten them. </em></p><p>“You think!” echoed Aoife, half-laughing, and read out loud. “<em>I am an absolute buffoon of a man who can’t put two words together properly and, frankly, I ought to learn to plow the fields instead of women</em>.”</p><p>They chuckled together, and she turned a few pages.</p><p>“To decently prepare for,” she nearly choked on the next words, “...an anal invasion, take the juice of a lemon or two to three tablespoons of vinegar and mix them with thirty ounce of clean boiled and cooled water, pour it all into a clyster (you need to find a real big one!), then shove it up your ass while uttering a warrior’s cry, and in around five minutes regret the day you were born into this world.”</p><p>She’d stopped reading because she was laughing so hard it hurt to breathe.</p><p><em> What? </em> he was laughing too, if somewhat nervously, perhaps. <em> It’s honestly not too far from the original. </em></p><p>“How dare you, it might have been his life’s work!” she chirped, still chuckling.</p><p>She’d stopped abruptly though because she realised something. All this distraction, was it because he felt shame as well? She had a clear impression that he felt... shy. Surely not after what they already did? And, anyway, the aldamaari weren't that familiar with shame, not really. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder. The hunch was just too strong.</p><p>“I think I’d rather see the pictures,” she whispered, hiding her gaze.</p><p><em> Alright, </em>he said, somewhat reluctantly, and the silly text disappeared.</p><p>The atmosphere surrounding her changed, too. It became much more dreamlike, and less realistic. Before, she could have sworn she was awake and really, physically, in this place, now she felt pleasantly dizzy, and her vision was slightly blurred. For some time, the pages were completely blank, and then the illustrations started appearing, yet piecemeal, as if someone was drawing them right in front of her.</p><p>She held her breath. Instead of fictional men and women, it was them. The two of them. On every page. Embracing, kissing, making love, doing things to each other that she might have considered bizarre mere years or months ago. In some of the images he was a real, living man. In others, still a tree.</p><p>“Oh,” was the only thing she could mutter, slowly turning the pages one by one. It was, she realised, a collection of desires; so many of them already mutual, others, waiting to be discovered. The images were all so lustful, yet so very sublime, but on a single one she paused the longest: it was her alone, and on the picture she looked different somehow, not the way she’d seen herself in a mirror or her mind’s eye. Glowing, captivating, ethereally beautiful.</p><p>She touched the drawing with her fingertips, barely breathing. On it, she was pleasuring herself and clearly lost in the process. The picture felt alive and warm to the touch.</p><p><em> Have I offended you? </em>he asked in a hoarse whisper.</p><p>All she was able to do at the moment was shake her head “no”, transfixed by the image.</p><p>Was this truly how <em> he </em> saw her?</p><p>“I want to kiss you,” she finally managed. “Please, may I kiss you?”</p><p><em> Yes</em>, he whispered, and his face appeared. It was bizarre how slowly it materialised this time. As if it cost him some physical effort. As if he was pushing through some substantial barrier. She didn’t have the energy to wonder about it. She turned completely, and in an instant her lips assaulted his. She kissed him herself this time, vigorously, if somewhat ineptly, but he was guiding her, and slowing her down, and in a few moments she was moaning into his mouth, their tongues deliciously intertwining.</p><p>“This picture... It’s of me at night, thinking of you,” she told him between kisses.</p><p>He groaned.</p><p><em> Off… Please... </em> he begged, tugging at her clothes, and she undressed for him of her own volition, almost ripping the undergarments off, and then was kissing him again, very nearly going delirious.</p><p><em> Let me show you something, </em>he said into her mouth, caressing her with no less than five stalks. She swung back.</p><p>He sunk one of the tendrils deep into the ground surrounding him, held it there for a few moments, and it emerged with a few budding flowers on the surface.</p><p>
  <em> The ones I planted yesterday. They were for you. </em>
</p><p>He brought them closer for her to see. Their form reminded her of big, separately growing bluebells, yet the color was otherworldly: white from one angle and nacreous from the other. The slightest touch of light would change the hue, playing on their iridescent surface.</p><p>“They are beautiful.”</p><p><em> There’s more to them</em>, he said and the bud hanging right above her head began to slowly unfold its petals. <em> Open your mouth. </em></p><p>She did, and realised that when he’d asked her to do something, his voice would change ever so slightly, and it would send shivers down her spine. She remembered the image of the woman blindfolded, taking the man’s cock into her mouth, and wondered if she would find her likeness in this book doing the same.</p><p>A few drops of nectar fell onto her outstretched tongue.</p><p>
  <em> Taste it. </em>
</p><p>It was divine. As sweet as honey, yet not cloying at all, and somehow, some way, it reminded her of Florion himself, and of his scent, and of how his tongue tasted in her mouth. She wanted more of that taste, so she licked the petals, too, and exhaled in arousal, vaguely aware of the eroticism of the situation.</p><p>He was <em> very </em>aware of it.</p><p><em> I’d say It's giving me ideas, </em> he whispered. <em> But they’re already in the book. </em></p><p>She kissed him again, and again, and nearly cried, desperately wishing this was real. Could she convince herself that it was; Merely a different kind of real? Perhaps, if only for a moment. When she swung back again to catch her breath and admire his face, he fed her nectar from another flower, and then another, and she closed her eyes and moaned, savouring them and swaying her hips back and forth ever so slightly on the thickest stalk that was pressing up between her legs.</p><p><em> Show me</em>, he said decisively, and withdrew every single one of his appendages, leaving her whimpering. <em> I want to see you touch yourself like that. I want to watch you, show me. </em></p><p>There was commandment in his tone, and normally, she would have recoiled. She thought she couldn’t stand being ordered around now that she knew it was an option not to listen. But right now, with him, it made her even more aroused. It felt like a game, as if it was just another sexual act, and not at all him trying to control her.</p><p>She pulled herself backwards a foot away, closed her eyes, and leaned back on one arm, and with the other did as he commanded. The moment she touched her pulsating cunt, her fingers were covered in slick, she was so wet it seemed impossible.</p><p>In a few moments she felt wild, as if this act was something else, something more: some kind of carnal worship. Of him, of the tree, of some unknowable old god they both represented. He was barely making any sounds but for heavy breathing, yet she felt intensely observed by him, she could swear she felt his greed, his gaze, his desire for her. If there remained any shame at all, it was now under lock and key in some forgotten dungeon.</p><p>She opened her legs wider while pushing apart her lower lips with fingers of the other, so he could see her better, see all of her. And immediately plunged a finger inside herself. It made him groan, and very nearly break his unspoken promise of not touching her until she’s brought herself to a climax.</p><p>She was close; it was becoming almost unbearable to stay in this position. Quite soon she descended on her back completely and started using both hands, the peaks of her breasts swaying with every movement of her arms.</p><p><em> I want to </em> <b> <em>fuck</em> </b> <em> you</em>, came his voice, and in the hungriest tone yet. <em> I want to fuck you so badly, Aoife. </em></p><p>Head thrown back on the ground, she moaned, loudly, openly, without biting her lip this time, the latter being a habit she’s formed from her intimate moments alone. This was for him as much as it was for her sake. Her legs were starting to tremble. Not too long ago she wouldn’t have imagined allowing someone to talk in such a dirty way to her, and loving it, yet here it was.</p><p>
  <em> In every way imaginable. I want to hear you scream my name while I take you. </em>
</p><p>She did, right now, her toes curling, her whole body shaking. She sang his name as if it was a prayer and felt the remaining flowers dropping nectar over her heaving body, and on her face, and on her fingers, still plunged inside of her cunt, and then she brought her hand to her mouth and licked them one by one.</p><p>The sounds he made upon seeing this were guttural.</p><p>She couldn’t move so she lay sprawled in front of him, basking in the afterglow, still knowing it isn’t supposed to be like this, as she had no muscles in a dream, no lungs, nor even a body, and yet it felt so real.</p><p>“Did you enjoy the show?” she relished the question, anticipating his answer.</p><p>
  <em> Very much so, my little songstress. </em>
</p><p>This little nickname gave her another jolt of pleasure, an aftertaste. It all felt so real…</p><p>So real and so not enough.</p><p>“The things you said… I want the same, you know.”</p><p>He was still breathing heavily, and this breathing was interspersed with grunts, and she realised all of a sudden that while she could dream herself a body here, and have this body experience pleasure, it was quite different for him. He was a damnable tree here, after all. “You can’t... actually...” how was it still so hard to speak these words after what happened? How was she still ashamed while lying naked in front of him?! “You can’t climax here,” she managed.</p><p><em> No, </em> he said simply. <em> Not here, I mean, by the gods, look at the form my body takes here! But It’s not that big of a problem. I feel… some of it. I just can’t feel release. </em></p><p>She was back at his side then, and whispering words into his mouth again.</p><p>“But what point is there,” she said. “What point is there in giving pleasure and observing it when you cannot feel it yourself”. She couldn’t help it. As beautiful and ethereal all this was, she wanted the real thing.</p><p>
  <em> I’d argue there’s a point in giving even if there’s no taking. Although if you would have asked me years ago, I’d probably say otherwise. </em>
</p><p>“You’re saying you used to be selfish?”</p><p>
  <em> I most definitely was. A selfish lover, and a selfish person, and a selfish citizen. The latter, I still am. What about you, my bee? I reckon, none of these things, ever. </em>
</p><p>“Would that not be selfish to say I never was selfish?”</p><p>He chuckled, his breath more steady now.</p><p>“As for a lover… I never was anyone’s lover. Until you, I suppose.”</p><p><em> That so… </em>he sounded wistful now, which caught her unawares.</p><p>“What is it? Is that a problem?”</p><p>
  <em> I do not know. You want me to wake up and be with you, and I want the same, and yet… I’ll hurt you. You know that, don’t you? It might be out of my control. </em>
</p><p>She knew at once what he meant by that, and remembered, briefly, how flustered she was when two of the Temple sisters were discussing the possibilities of her and Florion getting together, as if she wasn’t there and wasn’t going scarlet. She quite agreed with Mahri’s opinion now, if she was honest with herself.</p><p>“Well if you’re as selfless as you say you are, I think we’ll manage,” she smiled. “Besides. I think I wouldn’t mind a little pain if it comes from you…” it was so hard to say these words out loud, even though she wasn’t uttering them in reality.</p><p><em> That so? </em> he repeated, and then purred, lightly biting her lower lip. <em> I cannot say I'm not looking forward to this then: I’d take it slow, I’d maybe give it many nights, working your tight holes, stretching you with my fingers before I’d take you… </em></p><p>She moaned. There were not enough kisses in this realm to show him how aroused these words had made her.</p><p>“Yes… Please… Please, Florion.”</p><p><em> I’m salivating at the thought</em>.</p><p>“Wake up and we will find out just how much?” she offered, almost playfully.</p><p><em> I think, </em> he said, exhaling, <em> I will soon. I have all but dealt with my stubbornness and made a decision. But Aoife, there’s something else… </em></p><p>She kissed him.</p><p>“There’s nothing else.”</p><p><em> I’m frightened, </em>he said, breaking another brief kiss.</p><p>What could possibly frighten a man like him?</p><p>The words were obviously hard for him, but not in a way it was hard for her to speak of matters of the flesh. No, there was something else. Something agonizing. The air between them changed, she could feel it.</p><p><em> I might forget you, </em>he finally managed.</p><p>“What?”</p><p><em> Oh, gods… Aoife… </em> He shut his otherworldly golden eyes, and his expression was pure anguish. <em> How often have you woken up from a vivid dream only to forget it shortly after? Sometimes it mercifully stays with you for seconds, minutes, and sometimes it fades away immediately. This… You… This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t part of the plan… It might be taken from me. It might all be gone the moment I awaken. But If I stay here, and if you come see me, I might still... </em></p><p>Taken from him? Then, who would take it? Or, maybe, what?</p><p>“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “It won’t happen. Please. And even if it might… I can’t let you stay here. This is a grave, Florion. You <em>need </em>to wake up.”</p><p>
  <em> But what if it does? I cannot bear the thought. </em>
</p><p>“It won’t,” she insisted.</p><p>
  <em> You do not understand. Even the markings upon my skin might be taken from me. Are you still willing to take that risk? Would you still insist that I wake up? </em>
</p><p>“I would. I do.”</p><p>
  <em> Then… If it happens. If I forget. Please promise me you will remind me. You will find me, and you will remind me. Promise me. </em>
</p><p>She was about to say that of course she would, when a thought occurred to her. How in the name of Mountain Mother’s healing waters would that even work? How would <em> she </em> feel if a stranger approached <em> her </em>and told her what she was supposed to tell Florion if he really forgot? How would she feel, what madness would she ascribe to this stranger? Of course she would dismiss him and feel nothing but scorn and maybe even fear. She’d definitely avoid him after.</p><p>He probably saw doubt upon her face.</p><p>
  <em> Please, Aoife. </em>
</p><p>“I promise,” she said, knowing at the same time that it was an outright lie, and felt tears swell in her eyes, and then realised that it was actual tears that she was crying while laying in front of his stone bath, because she had abruptly woken up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Dirty Talk, Masturbation, Consensual Voyeurism, some kind of flower kink I don’t know the name of tbh!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Imaginary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*We interrupt your inarticulate plant sex for expository dialogues and masturbation and… excuse me, what are these flowers doing?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “The language they speak is flowing and soft, with an abundance of words ending more oft with vowels than consonants. There are countless many words that start with K. The sounds of S and T are abundant in their language. They do not roll their R but instead speak them softly, too, by briefly applying the tip of their tongues to their palates. Their alphabet is unique and has no letters matching with ours. Many male names end with -on or -onas but not all, many female names end with various vowels. Instead of last names they say, offspring (“filio”) of such and such. For instance, one of our interpreters is called Coris, and his mother is called Nesio. Thus, he calls himself Coris Nesiofilio. Indeed, they sometimes choose the name of their mother instead of their father’s. It is unclear, why.” </em>
</p><p>It wasn’t the shock, not really. It was the diminishing returns catching up with her, she guessed, one that any potent medication meant to be taken only once or very rarely, would have. And yet she has been taking the potion every night, for the last four. Didn’t the healer warn her of this? She no longer remembered, her thoughts felt so messy. Her body felt messy. She couldn’t continue doing this. For once, she had to think about her own well-being. Right?</p><p>No, she did not really care about it, no matter how much Aoife tried to convince herself otherwise. What would be the joy of living on, knowing that he’s still here, lonely and very nearly forgotten in his watery grave - because that’s what it was, a grave, a crypt, an undertaker guarding it. And she, a lone visitor, bringing flowers.</p><p>She wiped the thought away, as well as her tears, and yanked the stalk yet again out of her arm, and squealed, and bit her lip nearly bloody at the pain. It was becoming more and more unbearable every single time.</p><p>“You have to wake up,” she repeated yet again, staring into his face, and then leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips. They were so very cold. And fairytales remained just this. Tall tales of treachery and loss.</p><p>It didn’t matter if he remembered her afterwards or not. She wanted him to be awake and walking and talking and smiling, and <em> living. </em></p><p><em> He will forget, just you see, </em>her inner voice said.</p><p>And what if he does. She might find a way to deal with this if it happens. Besides, some dreams, even the forgotten ones, have a tendency to resurface when you least expect them to. And even if they don’t… She was enamoured with Florion, and coveted him, yes, but cared more for his well being than her feelings being reciprocated or her desires, fulfilled. At least that’s what she told herself for the moment.</p><p>She still had one swig of potion left. If she could bear swallowing the bitter liquid, she would return the next evening, and promise again, no, swear, and it didn’t matter if she lied, the only important thing was that he needed to wake up, and if it really was the last thing keeping him in, then she would assure him he needn’t worry, and pray it would help.</p><p>But then she remembered how the High Priestess was trying to persuade her just this morning, or how the kindly clergywoman patted Ouhrion’s hand but a week ago, while saying the exact same thing in her most reassuring tone, and yet, it did very little both times, if anything at all. She was old, and wise, and kind, and knowledgeable, yet neither Ouhrion nor Aoife believed her. They just weren’t the kind of people to buy it.</p><p>Maybe because hearing someone, anyone, tell you “it will be alright” never really helps, not when there’s no solid proof to serve alongside words. She thought, perhaps, that it was similar to religion. You are either able to have faith and never question it, or you have an endless list of questions, and sometimes the lack of answers and of hard evidence rob you of your faith entirely.</p><p>She wanted to believe Drifeo, but couldn’t. She could only hope Florion would find the strength to believe without question. Somehow, she doubted it, but swept that doubt aside.</p><p>Yet later at night, wrapped in her blanket and seeking more sleep, she thought not of his health and well-being, but of how he would come to share this bed with her and how they would explore each other’s bodies. They might get that book from under her pillow and she’d let him pick whatever he wanted to do to her... The memories of what he said, and did, and what she did for him, washed over her mind again and again, as waves wash over the shore. Aoife never imagined she could feel like this. It felt, in a way, as an awakening all on its own. She pleasured herself more than once, thinking of his gaze and of lips and of the promise he gave her, before she fell asleep again.</p><p>The next morning, coming to work early, she found Caileen already there, busy killing the first silkworms of the season in a side room. Dreadful business, that.</p><p>Caileen sat with her face covered by a cotton mask, and her hands in heavy tarred gloves. She’d dip a needle into a bowl of toxin, take a cocoon from the basket on her left, prick the tip of it with the needle, and then put the cocoon into a special long box with narrow compartments on her right. The dead pupa would then ooze down out of the pricked end, into a hollow tray, and the empty cocoon would be thrown into the third container to be washed, processed and then turned into silk and, subsequently, sails.</p><p>Aoife didn’t know why she stood in the doorway and stared for a whole minute. She hated seeing this. At least it was more merciful than how humans did it. The latter would just boil the worms alive. Didn’t make the whole setup any better. Caileen, however, didn’t seem to mind. She was quick, efficient and methodical, working with a vacant expression on her face, as if she was merely shucking peas.</p><p>Aoife must have made some kind of a sound, as the older woman lifted her head and looked at her. She must have had a horrified expression, too, judging by Caileen’s next words.</p><p>“They’re looking for another way, girl. If that’s what frightens you. But until they find it...” Caileen shrugged and proceeded to kill another worm. “Now is there something I can do for you?”</p><p>“Yes, uhm… About the organ...” Squeeze, prick, lay to die. Squeeze, prick, lay to die. Aoife closed her eyes.</p><p>“You wouldn’t be this student I oughta take? Got a letter about that.”</p><p>“Yes, that would be me.”</p><p>“Right then. You sure got the fingers for it. Whaddaya say we try this coming Alda day, the Great hall two hours before the service?” Caileen said amicably, not pausing her work even for a second.</p><p>“Yes, thank you, that would be...” she meant to add “fine”, but couldn’t. Her breakfast was rising to her throat.</p><p>Aoife darted out of the room.</p><p>By some miracle she managed to get to the privy before throwing up. She might have imagined that her vomit had that distinct bitter taste of the sleeping draft. If she didn’t, it was, most certainly, yet another clear indication that she ought to stop taking it every day. Or, better yet, at all.</p><p>She was chugging down her second mug of water when Mahri, of all people, found her.</p><p>“You’ll never guess!” she screamed at Aoife.</p><p>“Guess, what, exactly? And what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Volunteered to go fetch some cloth from your warehouse. That’s not the point! I just heard something, and I had to find you, I had to! It couldn’t... Wait, why are you so… What’s with your face?”</p><p>Aoife weighed the answer for a moment. She might tell the truth which would be “I threw up like a broken pipe”, but then Mahri would immediately think that she had morning sickness, despite the fact that there were no humans around, and a human woman couldn’t conceive of an aldamaari man, so naturally Mahri, ever forgetful, would beg for details, or start asking if Aoife has a human paramour hiding somewhere around here… She loved the girl dearly, but Mahri was definitely a blabbermouth.</p><p>“Just saw them killing silkworms. Disgusting.”</p><p>“Ew,” Mahri agreed and, thankfully, said nothing else about the matter. Her mind was obviously occupied with something different, otherwise why would she volunteer to run all the way to the manufactory. “Anyway… I heard two Sisters talk about you.”</p><p>“Duly noted,” said Aoife, to whom talking about her person behind her back was nothing new. Usually everyone just gossiped about how short or pale she was or how disproportionately large her breasts were compared to her body. And so on. Nothing bad. “What, my hair again, or something?”</p><p>“No, no, you don’t understand! They talked about getting you here! And what came before! Remember when you came here? I remember so well, 'cause that was precisely after my fifteenth birthday, and you were such a precious gift!”</p><p>“Yes, I remember.”</p><p>Oh how well. After weeks of near hourly sea sickness, with a trade ship crew who cursed and muttered upon seeing her, mostly about how the wretched women on board were bad luck, and thus barely let her out of the hold, and fed her only stale biscuits, strips of dried meat so old, tough and stringy that she nearly broke her teeth, and vinegared water… After all this, how marvelous was it to step onto this soil, to taste food that wasn’t revolting, to finally be warm again, to soak in hot water, to be so welcomed, even though she didn’t understand a word back then. Her first day would have been perfect if she wasn’t constantly scared of waking up to find herself still at the Convent.</p><p>Mahri, meanwhile, inhaled, and her next phrase was one uninterrupted word.</p><p>“Doyouknowtheyaskedspecificallyforyou?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, what? Could you repeat that again, but slower?”</p><p>“They asked! Specifically! For you!”</p><p>“Who did? Do I have to go somewhere, now?”</p><p>Mahri tapped her foot impatiently.</p><p>“No! When they asked the humans for a missionary! They asked! For you! Now do-you-know-<b>that</b>!”</p><p>“What? No I don’t. They didn’t. Surely not!”</p><p>Mahri made a sound that landed somewhere between a squeal and a gurgle.</p><p>“They did. Not directly. They just sent an emissary, and he listed the requirements for a missionary until you were the only one who would fit them. Not too smooth, but here you are!”</p><p>So were the humans so eager to have their missionary sent out that they’ve settled for someone as inexperienced, just to get the position filled? If so, how come they never contacted her again after sending her out? Not that she minded, of course.</p><p>“What would those requirements be?”</p><p>“Not sure! They didn’t discuss all of it… And I was crouching behind a bookshelf… But I’m guessing, age, sex, maybe your disposition? Religious ardor? Complexion? Who knows! They did ask for an orphan, though, and for some specific unique skills. Don’t ask me, I don’t know, which! What are your specific skills? Damn, you’ll have to tell me when you figure it out! Maybe, writing?”</p><p>Everyone at a Convent can write. It’s what the church exists for. To be the sole keeper of knowledge.</p><p>Oh, Mahri. She knew perfectly well what those “specific skills” actually were, and pestered Aoife to use them almost every day (“please sing the one about the owls!” “can you sing the one about the golden-haired girl? ple-e-e-e-ase?”), how could she have forgotten it now?</p><p>“Why would they do that?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” yelped Mahri, with utmost delight and enthusiasm.</p><p>“And why are you so excited?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” Mahri repeated and beamed. “But isn’t it just so <em> exciting</em>? You were meant to come here! I’m so, <b>so </b> happy they brought <em> you </em> and not some, some...”</p><p>“...real missionary,” Aoife finished, gloomily.</p><p>“No, someone with a beard. Beards are creepy. Anyway, gotta go, I love you! I’m <b>so </b>excited!” Mahri hugged her - a hug which Aoife returned - and then skittered away almost immediately, but not before grabbing a handful of dried apple slices from a table bowl.</p><p>That was all very odd indeed, but she’d gotten used to the thought that understanding the ways of the aldamaari would take time, and, as they often (very often!) said themselves, one ought not to rush. It was, all in all, a fortunate turn of events, and she had nothing but gratitude for whatever or whomever made the decision to bring her here. Why this decision has been made, well, that she might need to wait to find out. She poured herself another cup of water.</p><p>The day was horrid. At one point the women asked her if maybe she needed to go to the clinic, or simply take the rest of the afternoon off to get some sleep. She waved their concerns off. Work soothed her, and she even managed to drink some broth for lunch. However, the very thought of taking even a drop of that wretched potion again made her stomach turn. <em> No more. </em></p><p>The girls, thankfully, left her and her lyre alone in the evening, to soak in a scalding hot bath, eyes closed, and groaning slightly. And after very nearly falling asleep in that bath, she realised she doesn’t need the potion anymore. Not these days, anyway. It, along with everything she’d experienced in Florion’s realm, has made her so weak and drained throughout the week, that she only needed to find a more or less comfortable position to inevitably doze off and return to him.</p><p>Once she got back to his side, she rolled her cloak and put it under her head as a makeshift pillow, and lowered her arm into the water. An elanthie stalk connected with her wrist long before she fell asleep, and she absentmindedly mused yet again of how it reminded her a bit of a leech. Do these <em> leeches </em>suck his blood throughout the winter? They’re meant to give him some kind of nourishment, but do they, really? How is it even possible to be asleep for months and not become a skeleton? And how come she’d accepted this as something normal and never gave it any second thought until this? Until him.</p><p>Despite the fact that the position was uncomfortable, her eyes, locked on Florion, started to droop quite soon. Leech or not, contact with elanthie instilled something unexplainable in her. It didn’t feel like it was taking, or even giving, in and of itself. It was merely a connection. Right? And for a heartbeat she thought, also, of how she didn’t really need any potions. Or to be tired. It was actually this odd living plant that was putting her to sleep every time. She drifted off.</p><p>
  <em> You're here! </em>
</p><p>There was so much relief in his voice that she imagined someone sitting on a porch and staring into the distance, awaiting a loved one with rising anxiousness.</p><p>His realm felt different today, so much less real. She could have sworn fragments of it were dissolving, although the landscape didn’t show it yet. And not just this, her body didn’t feel the same as well. It was, as of yet, the closest to an actual dream it’s ever felt.</p><p>
  <em> Are you alright? </em>
</p><p>And yet another question that would cause an avalanche of subsequent ones, would she answer truthfully.</p><p>“Why do you ask?”</p><p>
  <em> Because you left so very abruptly. As if you were forcefully pulled. </em>
</p><p>“I am. I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down on the ground by his side. “It’s this damnable sleeping draft I was taking. I think it’d stopped working.”</p><p>
  <em> Which draft was that? </em>
</p><p>The tension in his voice was evident right away.</p><p>“It’s silver-something. I don’t really remember...”</p><p>She had trouble recalling some details from the waking world. They seemed so insignificant.</p><p>
  <em> Silverhaze. </em>
</p><p>“Yes, that’s the one.”</p><p>
  <em> Gods be damned, Aoife. You have been poisoning yourself for my sake. </em>
</p><p>“Poisoning?”</p><p>She turned and looked at the trunk, at the place where his face occasionally appeared, yet now it remained smooth, if somehow in a dreamy <em> haze </em>as well.</p><p>
  <em> Silverhaze is poison to humans. It won’t kill you but it will most certainly drain your strength. </em>
</p><p>“I see,” all the better then that she’d stopped taking it. The question remained of why the healer didn’t tell her, but perhaps the woman didn’t think of it. “How do you know of it? Have you ever taken any?”</p><p>The thought of him needing a sleeping draft seemed bizarre. But somewhat logical. She reckoned it wasn’t easy to fall asleep in a seemingly bottomless stone bath, supported only by some twisted plants penetrating your body in a dozen places and knowing you won’t wake up for months, and that your loved ones are to remain without you for the winter.</p><p><em> Taken it?! </em> He still sounded anxious. <em> Why, I was the… </em>He fell silent quite abruptly.</p><p>“The what?” she smiled slightly with the edge of her mouth, perceiving that he’d just said more than he intended to. She would remember that for later. As well as an almost lucid thought, of a kind that only flies into your mind at the illusive border between dream and reality. A thought that came out of nowhere and had no logical reasoning behind it. “He was the one who invented it.”</p><p>
  <em> Forget it. Just… Please don’t take it anymore. </em>
</p><p>“I won’t. I don’t need it.”</p><p>
  <em> Promise me you will not subject yourself to harm again on my behalf. Please?</em>
</p><p>“I promise,” she said, slightly more truthful today than yesterday.</p><p><em> Good. You shouldn’t ever doubt that you are selfless, </em> he whispered. <em> You’re definitely not. </em></p><p>Her heart fluttered when she remembered what exactly he was referring to, or, rather, in which circumstances that context was formed yesterday.</p><p>“Are you allowed to tell me how this realm works? Or is that a forbidden subject as well?”</p><p>He mused for a few moments.</p><p><em> I think I am allowed, </em> he finally decided. <em> Although I cannot claim to understand all of its rules myself. Where we are now, it’s some sort of a safe place. A wayport, or a patch of land on the crossroads. My mind is almost firmly here when it doesn’t wander. I can recall things more clearly when I am… rooted. When I’m like this. I can control where I go, at least partially, but it’s only my mind that goes. This place remains unchanging. Or so I think. </em></p><p>There was a sound, as if a light wind flew through the leaves, rustling them. Aoife realised it was his way of moving. Or, maybe, shrugging.</p><p>“I saw a door there a few nights ago,” she pointed to a spot in the hedge, now perfectly empty but for the greenery. “Is this how you leave? You go through a door?”</p><p>
  <em> No. I don’t need doors to move around. Most of the time, I am not bound by earthly limitations. It is my mind, right here, right now. It wills to go, and then it does. </em>
</p><p>“Do others become trees as well?”</p><p>
  <em> It’s not a form other dreamers take in their realms. We can’t control what we become. It’s been decided for us. </em>
</p><p>Decided by whom, exactly?</p><p>“Why am I different here then?”</p><p>
  <em> What do you mean? </em>
</p><p>She looked at her fingers. They were still soft and smooth, despite being calloused and firm in life, due to the nature of her work and all the plucking of the strings she’d done of late. She then lowered the robe off her shoulder and craned her neck. Just as she thought. No trace of her scars.</p><p><em> Aoife? </em>he inquired, after observing her for a few more moments.</p><p>“I’m… what I mean is… why am I so soft here? So… untouched. Is this how you see me? Is this <em> you </em> making me like this? Or is it this... your... realm doing this?”</p><p><em> You are soft in more ways you can imagine, </em> he murmured. <em> But the callouses and scars you have been searching for just now, they are still there. I see them. I see you. I did from the very beginning. </em></p><p>She sighed.</p><p>“Then thank you for not asking questions.”</p><p>
  <em> I hope one day you will feel comfortable enough with me to tell me. If you want. </em>
</p><p>She snickered briefly and sardonically. How very <em> aldamaari </em> of him to not be the least bit surprised that a girl makes love to him, and never hesitating to talk dirty to that same girl, yet waiting patiently for her to form enough trust afterwards to mention the <em> painful bits. </em></p><p>“Then did I do that?” she asked out loud.</p><p>
  <em> I think so, yes. I think you cannot bear to see yourself like this. Or for others to see you like this. </em>
</p><p>“I didn’t do a good job,” she scowled. “You still saw through it.”</p><p>
  <em> I am the master of this realm after all. And beside me wanting to kill whoever did this to you… Well… You needn’t worry about how I see you. You’re beautiful. In case my lecherous snakes did not make it quite clear. </em>
</p><p>She’d barely registered the word <em> kill </em>and what came after. She’d think of it later… Some other time… Some other place… Or maybe not at all.</p><p>
  <em> I may be able to rid you of them. </em>
</p><p>“Rid me of what?”</p><p>
  <em> Your scars. In the waking world. If you want. I heard some people say, their scars are a part of them. Mind you, most of them were warriors and hunters. And I would bet you do not share that view. </em>
</p><p>“I don’t. And thank you. I might take you up on that offer. How would you do it then? By magic?”</p><p>
  <em> Magic? </em>
  <em>Not at all. There’s an ointment I can mix. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to reach your back to rub it in. So I would have to undress you and do it myself. </em>
</p><p>“Uh huh.” Aoife smiled shyly and hid her gaze again.</p><p><em> Not for too long. A few minutes would be enough, until it is absorbed completely, </em> and he was very clearly smiling as well, and very clearly toying with her now. <em> It needs to be applied repeatedly, too. </em></p><p>“There is this woman in the Temple bathhouse I go to,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “A healer. If you rub ointments in the way she rubs in oil, you will probably break all my bones.”</p><p><em> Oh, I’m sure I can be very gentle with you, </em> he cooed. <em> Just you wait until I get my hands back. </em></p><p>“Aren’t these your hands?”</p><p><em> What, these? </em> A few lianas lifted to the sides and it did in fact look like a man shrugging. It was quite a comical sight. <em> Since your arrival here, I’ve come to realise - and together you and me have proven that theory, I think - that all of these are most likely my poor neglected cock. </em></p><p>The self-deprecating tone in which he said it made her laugh, which was, most likely, his intention all along. She realised it was one of the things she liked about him most. Sure, he could be serious when he wanted to and when the situation called for it. And yes, he listened and he understood. But this, his aptitude for sensing when a subject was too heavy for her to discuss, and then not pressing her at all and immediately diffusing the situation with crude humor to distract her, this she cherished most of all.</p><p>She also didn’t mind his playfulness and how most of this humor was taking advantage of the fact that she was shy. <em> I am an easy target, I admit it, </em>she remembered herself telling the girls. Joke’s on him, with each of her visits her shame was pummeled down more and more, and it was barely breathing at this point.</p><p>“O woe is you,” she said, took one of the lianas in her palm, lifted it to her face and gave it a long slow lick. It tried to coil around her shoulders but she promptly rolled away, laughing, and ended up a foot away, on her back. She threw her arms open and stared into the green mosaic that was the sky. It seemed to be changing, too, as if more distant.</p><p>A few stalks touched her body and tugged at her clothes.</p><p>“I want to see the book again,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Will you show it to me?”</p><p>
  <em> With pleasure. </em>
</p><p>She rolled onto her belly and saw it, and reached for it, turning the cover hastily, with greed.</p><p>The pages appeared mixed and not in the same order this time.</p><p>One seemed almost living. She could see the scene in her mind’s eye. That he was in her bed, his domineering form enveloping her, and his mouth was on hers, and his hands were on her body, and his huge golden eyes turned almost black while staring intently into hers, and his gaze was making her shake and whimper and melt as he reached down to rid her of her clothes in such a manner that left them in tatters, and then his tongue was on her body, too, it branded her, in small circles, lower and lower, until it was between her legs, and in her head, she almost heard herself howl as it began to lap her greedily, and the sounds he made were animalistic, and the grip he held her thighs in was steel.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>A dream within a dream, was it? That was something new.</p><p>She sighed, transfixed by the vision, while almost absentmindedly stretching out her arms and then lifting her things, as he was not quite sneakily ridding her of clothes right here.</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind you ripping them off, if there was ever any doubt,” she breathed.</p><p><em> Would that I had real hands, </em>he murmured.</p><p>One that in reality had a woman between two men, was now her and a few of his stalks instead. She heard herself moan slightly at the sight.</p><p>His breath caught for a moment.</p><p>Turning another page and then another, she’d finally arrived on the one she wanted to see last night. It was a bit blurry and barely recognizable for what it was, as if he, the would-be artist, had been doubting that he’s allowed to imagine it, to <em> paint </em>it.</p><p>But she could discern the blindfold.</p><p>“I want this,” she whispered almost against her own will.</p><p><em> Want what, </em>he asked, stroking her thigh lightly, although she could have sworn he knew precisely what she meant. She guessed, he really wanted her to voice it. Whether to rid him of his doubts, to give consent, or for the sheer pleasure of hearing her say it out loud, she did not know. It did not matter.</p><p>“I want you dominating me,” she said, and bit her lower lip, very nearly paralized by her own daring. “Like this. You binding my hands and taking me however you will… The very thought of it... I want it.”</p><p>
  <em> Do you, now? </em>
</p><p>“Desperately,” she breathed. It was such an odd feeling. To not be scared of this, to crave it, knowing it comes from someone she can trust, whom she hungers for. And not someone who instills nothing but hate and fear. It was a difference between willingly giving up control and having it stolen from you, she supposed.</p><p>She half-expected him to argue. To ask again, or ask for details. Instead…</p><p>
  <em> On your knees, Aoife. </em>
</p><p>Instead she obeyed blindly, feeling her imaginary heart beat that much faster in her imaginary chest.</p><p>
  <em> Lift up your arms. </em>
</p><p>She whimpered, and obeyed again, and an appendage caught her hands, and brought them together, and tightened as a noose around her wrists.</p><p><em> Let go. I got you, </em>he said, in quite a different tone, not imperious, but a gentle and reassuring one.</p><p>She tried to loosen her <em> imaginary </em> muscles, and hung, attempting to keep in mind his words from earlier: <em> I would never let you fall. </em>He didn’t, at least this time. She felt supported from all sides, relaxed for a moment, almost blissful... Then two stalks coiled swiftly around her thighs and sharply pulled them apart, and the third one plunged inside.</p><p>Aoife keened.</p><p><em> Not done yet, </em> he breathed, and there was another, sliding alongside, stretching it to a point where it would have been painful if it wasn’t <em> imaginary</em>.</p><p><em> Not done, </em>he repeated, with so much greed and craving in his voice that it was almost palpable, and yet another appendage nudged at her ass and made her whimper.</p><p><em> Won’t hurt, sweet thing. I am the master of this realm, remember? Now let me in, </em>he said, and this time, it was a mixture of gentleness and domineering.</p><p>Then she bit her lip and nodded her head, consenting, and almost instantly he was pressing in. So easily. As if… “As if it is a dream”, she thought, arching her back to meet him and take him deeper.</p><p>There was indeed no pain, just another layer of pleasure. And the only word she uttered was his name.</p><p>He answered with a groan.</p><p>And in a moment she was, it seemed, entirely enveloped in about a dozen of his appendages.</p><p>One held both of her wrists together, and a few were coiling around her body, warm, ever moving and rubbing her skin, another pounded her ass relentlessly, two thinner ones were taking turns to slide in and out of her cunt, so tantalizingly slow, yet another was higher nudging at a little aching nub of nerves, and everything together was making her howl.</p><p>
  <em> Yes. Take it, sweet thing. Take it. </em>
</p><p>No longer able to make any coherent sounds, she simply gave in, crying out unceasingly.</p><p>There was his name here and there, perhaps, and then there wasn’t, because she was sucking on yet another tendril and maybe losing her mind.</p><p>She wanted so desperately to delay her orgasm, to enjoy this longer, for she was sure he’d stop when she comes. She did hold, but not for long, as his command arrived as if from all around her.</p><p>
  <em> Come. </em>
</p><p>No, he didn’t stop, not for a single second, after she moaned and shook and went limp, drooping from the plant fetters holding her wrists, head heavy on her shoulder. He did not even slow down.</p><p><em> Mine, </em> he groaned. <em> You’re mine. </em></p><p><em> I’m yours, </em>she thought.</p><p>She managed to look up then with hazy eyes, and saw the sight that gave her yet another layer of pleasure and urged her even closer to her next peak.</p><p>His real body, from the waist up, has materialized - an outline first, then beginnings of a form on the coppery trunk, and then, detaching from the tree as if he, too, was kneeling even with her, she saw his face, and his torso and his arms in their entirety, and they were visibly changing color to light green of his skin - his living skin; and his hands, as real as they could be in this realm, reached out and cupped her breasts and didn’t leave them. They were squeezing them together, caressing incessantly, circling the nipples and then pinching them in a deliciously painful way, and going back to the tenderest of touches the next second.</p><p><em> Oh, </em> he breathed. <em> Can finally do this. </em></p><p>She had no idea that they were so sensitive or that it would add so much to the already present onslaught of senses, she wasn’t prepared for the avalanche that came next when her second orgasm came crashing over her.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. </em>
</p><p>Those eyes of his… She did, with difficulty, rocking back and forth as much as she could manage and moaning and sucking loudly at that one stalk still in her mouth. She dropped it soon though, for she felt the need to scream, and scream, she did.</p><p><em> This is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed, </em>he reflected quietly.</p><p>She thought she saw herself with his gaze then, if only for a moment: flushed, helpless, deliciously lustful, with darkened gaze and heavy eyelids, her hair strewn about and clinging to her shoulders, and her sweaty back, and to <em> him. </em>So that is truly how he saw her… Or was it yet another illusion?</p><p>“Florion… Your face… Your hands...”</p><p>They were still on her breasts, squeezing them gently.</p><p><em> My body, </em> he said, almost incredulously. <em> It’s starting to transform back into the material form. It seeks release. </em></p><p>“Release?” she echoed, weakly, still held by him, with all but one stalk still inside and moving ever so slightly, still swaying her on soothing waves of slowly calming pleasure.</p><p><em> Yes, from this realm, and from the dream. But most of all… And for that I’d need to wake up… </em> his fingers were on her lips then and he almost gasped out his next words. <em> I want to come in your mouth. </em></p><p>She moaned. So lewd, the very thought of it. And yet she wanted it so much. It, and anything else he’d wish to do to her.</p><p>“Please, Florion. Oh, please.”</p><p>He understood her plea, and then was moving his appendages again, and she was moving her thighs to meet them, and still shivering slightly.</p><p><em> And not just that, all over you as well, and inside you, too, </em> he cooed in a half-whisper, pinching her nipples again and pulling them forwards. <em> Until you’re positively dripping with my seed. </em></p><p>She realised she didn’t come crashing down before, but was still hovering somewhere close to the peak, and it was so easy to get there again, so very easy…</p><p>
  <em> I spend a great deal of time imagining this, and other things. I hunger for them. For you. I want… I need to… </em>
</p><p>Her mind went blank, her ears, momentarily deaf to her own desperate moans and his obscene promises. Her body went completely limp right after, and then she felt herself lowered to the ground yet again.</p><p>She did not know how long it took for her to come back to her senses and unseal her eyelids.</p><p>But when she did, she was awake, and the first thing she saw was his hand, clinging to a side of the bath, nails scratching the stone, the muscles on his belly flexing in the effort to draw the body up, mouth smiling ear to ear, eyes dark from <em> imaginary </em>desire still.</p><p>He was awake.</p><p>Aoife shrilled and sprang back in shock, and then, struggling to breathe, reached for him, and pulled him out, or, rather, clung to him as he pulled himself out, all but falling heavily upon the bench, water streaming from his body.</p><p>No blood, no resistance, no welts. Elanthie stalks just let him go. For half a heartbeat she thought she saw a handful of multi-colored sprang seeds float to the surface, but then she wasn’t looking at the water; only at <em> him</em>. There was but one marking on his skin left, and it was the snowdrop on his belly.</p><p>He cupped her face in his hands, and looked, and looked, and smiled, and looked, as if trying to memorize every detail. She didn’t know quite how, but the next moment she was in his lap, hugging him around the neck, her breath coming out in loud, ragged sobs, tears mixing with water from his soaked hair. So happy, so happy, so happy.</p><p>Knowing that she ought to let go, to let him breathe, she still couldn’t compel herself to. She’d stay like this forever, would that she could stop time.</p><p>...and then she was being forced off him. A pair of hands descended onto her shoulders from behind, and yanked her violently back.</p><p>It was the caretakers, she realised, big and awfully strong, in their usual baggy grey uniforms.</p><p>They must have heard her. But she had no idea where they came from, or how they managed to arrive so quickly.</p><p>“Let go of him, girl,” one growled and pulled her away. As feral as she was at that moment, as determined to never, ever let go, Aoife was no match for the strength.</p><p>“Am I still asleep, did it all just turn into a nightmare?” she thought, wailing and thrashing wildly in the stranger’s grip. Between her screams and pleas of “let me go!” she thought she heard a weak “no… <em> please </em>” uttered in his voice, but couldn’t see him from behind all of the massive backs, and shoulders, and arms lifting him onto his feet.</p><p>Two of the caretakers pinned her against the wall with careless force, obstructing her view almost entirely, and two others wrapped Florion in a cloak and carried him away, supported under his arms. He didn’t seem to resist or object; in fact, he hung from their grip as if he was unconscious. They all ignored her sobbing as one would ignore a cricket in the bushes.</p><p>They dragged her after by the shoulder, taking careful measures to hide Florion from her view, and left her shivering outside the cavern, where this time the guardswoman stood blocking her way to the Road of Steps and staring at her almost menacingly. Aoife wanted to push her away and run after them but found she had no strength to do it, having sunk all of the latter into useless struggling. All she could do was stand, and shake, and swallow her tears, and try to catch a glimpse of him. But he was gone.</p><p>“He needs his rest,” said the guardswoman. “You leave him be for now.”</p><p>“Where did they take him?”</p><p>“To the Clinic,” said the guardswoman.</p><p>“But… he wasn’t sick, he was alright. He climbed out himself and...”</p><p>
  <em> And he pulled me onto his lap and he was embracing me. And he was smiling. </em>
</p><p>“Leave him be, girl. And don’t you dare go after!” the woman repeated more loudly. And then, perhaps seeing the unadulterated grief upon Aoife’s face, added in a softer tone. “He’ll get better in a day or two, you may see him then.”</p><p>What was she scared of? The dreamers were well looked after, she saw them recover, she saw some of them depart to other cities, she met one of them at the docks, alive and well and vivacious and antagonistic, the latter, according to Ouhrion, being her natural self. Was it fear, anyway? Wasn’t it just her being selfish, truly selfish this time, wanting him all to herself?</p><p>“Go home and get some sleep.”</p><p>And the guardswoman nudged her on the shoulder. Aoife went. Her legs once again didn’t feel like her own.</p><p>...but why then did they push her away so forcefully, why did they hold her back? Why did they behave in such a violent way? She remembered accompanying the procession that carried one of the dreamers on a stretcher. No one had stopped her then, and she was thanked and politely dismissed when the man was successfully delivered to the Temple clinic and laid into bed there.</p><p>Maybe it was her fault again. She ought not have cried and weeped and sobbed and clang to him. It must have looked bizarre and suspicious from the strangers’ point of view. No, the guardswoman was right, right now she needed to go home, and wait for tomorrow to come.</p><p>The night came and went, and so did the Worship day, and the harpsichord lesson she struggled to recall, after. She was barely allowed to touch the instrument, instead going through Caileen’s idea of solfège that was clearly meant for children or those who’d never dabbled in music before. She was too distracted to argue her case. She was too distracted to sing during the service. She circled the clinic like a vulture, not daring to go in, and being almost completely certain she wouldn't be allowed to…</p><p>She was in the Temple gardens that afternoon, working alone at this time, as the girls went to the kitchens shortly before to get some compost for the seedlings. Her thoughts were far away, when he finally came. She saw him approaching from the library, and jumped up, and straightened, barely managing to stop herself from running toward him and throwing her arms around him. Instead she stood, stiff as a board. He must have walked through the Temple grounds from the library. His long hair was in a neat braid that laid on his shoulder, he wore what she saw the other dreamer wear down in the docks: black pants, high, buckled boots, a white shirt. An identical leather jerkin hung, folded, on his elbow. So soon! He was on his feet so soon! But why did he look so sullen, why wasn’t he smiling? She certainly was.</p><p>Aoife watched him come closer, and with every step he took, a terrible foreboding gripped her heart ever tighter, and the smile was slowly dissipating.</p><p>He stopped a respectful distance from her. So tall, so lean, so very beautiful, and so very indifferent; he bowed courtly, as one would to a stranger when making an inquiry, or asking for directions.</p><p>“Excuse me,” he spoke in an almost wooden tone. “You wouldn’t know where I could find the Head Librarian at this hour, would you?”</p><p>She searched, and searched, and searched again for a shrivel, a shred of recognition on his face, but found none. He was right after all. As was her inner voice. The dream had lingered for mere moments, before it, and he, were taken away. He did not remember a thing now. He did not know her. She was, and ever will be, a stranger to him. In her blind grief she ought to have hated him for forgetting, probably, but she only hated herself, for caring for him so much, for getting herself into this, for not seeing a reasonable way to remind him. Besides, maybe, just maybe, none of it was ever real, just a figment of her imagination, after all.</p><p>“I saw him leave through the eastern gate about an hour ago,” she managed, hoarsely, trying not to burst into tears right then and there. He did not notice anything, or did not care. His expression did not change in the slightest.</p><p>“How fortunate. Thank you. I’ll leave you to your labors then. Goodbye.”</p><p>He bowed again.</p><p>And just like that, her darling Florion, who wasn’t the same person anymore, but his real self, was gone.</p><p>She didn’t remember running to the garden shed; Aoife came to, kneeling on the floor of it, bawling silently, her mouth open in a horrible soundless scream.</p><p>Oh, how her vile inner voice was right indeed. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt so much.</p><p>She imagined if it would ease her pain if the Temple sisters would return and find her here, like this: crying on the floor, with mud in her disheveled hair, and snot crawling down her face. They probably wouldn’t ask any questions at first and would just hug her and tell her she’s not alone and never will be.</p><p>But no one came. And she felt quite alone and perhaps more miserable than she ever did in her entire life. She cried until she couldn’t cry no more, and then stood up, and wiped her face as best she could, and went to fetch some water to wash it before anyone could see her like this.</p><p>She did not know of the abrupt way he stopped and lingered for a moment behind the eastern gate.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Plant Sex, Angst, Memory Loss</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. P.II Flowers to the Altar//The Loss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Double penetration by tree, then everyone is immediately miserable.<br/>*Where’s the plot? Oh there it is. Oh, wait, it’s about to leave again.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “We have recovered and regained our strength completely but they will still not serve us meat. Our interpreters have taken us on a walk around town, showing us things and naming them, and we, in turn, named them in our tongue. Their wares are abundant although we have not seen any meat but fish meat and that from shells and of beasts of the sea. Mayhaps they are fasting. When we approached a cook’s stall, our interpreters asked for “nudeloj” and were given bowls made of material resembling clay but covered in a shiny enamel. These contained a dish of boiled dough cut into thin strips and mixed with herbs and oil and pieces of cockles or mussels. It was satisfactory. We have also not seen any currency exchange hands and no fair trade has taken place either.” </em>
</p><p>He lingered for a moment behind the eastern gate, and a nagging feeling of having forgotten to do or say something important briefly crossed his mind, and he thought of how this girl, the only human in town, to his knowledge, looked very beautiful with those slender wrists, gentle features and autumnal hair of hers, but so very mournful. He noticed how she smiled upon seeing him from afar, and how her smile faded. Perhaps, she had mistaken him for someone else.</p><p>Something indiscernible was missing, reminding him of a feeling he’d had as a child, and Florion kept trying to grope around his mind to find it, failing time and time again, and it made him mad as all hell. He was already mad after his last exchange with the caretakers, and after lack of exchange with the Head Librarian who was supposed to wait patiently for him in his study, but wasn't. He was also unbelievably sore, and hungry, and irritated, so the addition didn’t do him any good.</p><p>Why he went searching around for the old fraud instead of staying put at the clinic, he didn’t precisely know, but he felt like one more minute in a horizontal state might kill him or drive him insane.</p><p>He didn’t find him, the man must have slipped away east by way of the road leading up into the valley, or the beaches. Yet when Florion nearly reached the Greater harbor by way of fishing docks, he came upon someone else he knew was waiting for him to wake up, and this one he most definitely didn’t need to be polite or exchange pleasantries with. Good, ‘cause he wasn’t able to anyway. At least, not at this time, not before he’s had his first fix in months.</p><p>“If it isn’t the Shipwright,” he bowed mockingly. “Admiring her floating barrels.”</p><p>“If it isn’t the Rosebush, prying,” said Lideo, not turning her head and keeping her arms crossed, but smiled with the corner of her mouth. “I see you took your sweet time. What’s been keeping you?”</p><p>Following her gaze, he said, “My conscience.” She wasn’t, in fact, looking at any ships, as the harbor was empty and so was the observable horizon.</p><p>“Heard of this thing. Dreadful nuisance in our line of work.”</p><p>“So it is. Well since you’re here and so am I, why don’t you tell me something, Shipwright. Specifically, why you treated Ouhri like he was little more than a seal turd.”</p><p>“Me? Well, shit. What business did he have sending me messengers and calling me to come here? I’m not some errant girl.” Lideo said, frowning and finally turning to look at him.</p><p>Florion couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His chest hurt like all hell, and his muscles felt sore and deformed, and the laughter didn’t bring him any joy or triumph in the end.</p><p>“You really got so grumpy ‘cause he sent a port messenger and asked you to walk half a mile? And yet I see you here now, idly standing by with nothing going on and not a single ship in sight. Were you crippled that day, Shipwright? Or in pain?”</p><p>“My pain is sorry lover boys bothering me with questions they could simply ask the clergy instead. And humans prying.”</p><p>“Alas, I’m aware that the concept of affection is unfamiliar to you, I wouldn’t know how to explain it. And what was that about prying humans?”</p><p>She ignored the insult. It wasn’t the first or hundredth they’ve exchanged in all their years of knowing each other. They never meant anything by them.</p><p>“There was this human girl here. Eavesdropping, clearly.”</p><p>He sighed.</p><p>“Eavesdropping on what, exactly? On you calling my best friend a nuisance?”</p><p>“How the everliving fuck should I remember, what? She just was. Stood right here, chewing like a lyssej and listening to us talk. I don’t trust them.”</p><p>So, she forgot this very important information that the girl was allegedly eavesdropping on, but didn’t forget the act itself. How very generous of her. Paranoid much?</p><p>“Whom, lysseji?”</p><p>Lideo rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Go sit in the middle of a forest and set it aflame, Rosebush. Humans. You know I meant humans.”</p><p>He said, “I know fuckall right now.” And kicked a pebble with his boot. It landed over the quayside and made some ripples in the water that looked as weak as his calves felt. He was behaving as an angry child. He didn’t much care for this state of mind and wanted to get rid of it, but didn’t know precisely how. Maybe he ought to start with eating something that wasn’t watery broth and then powering through the pain? He’s never <em> slept </em> that long. Is this what it feels like to be hungover? He’s forgotten. He wanted to get drunk, as well, to see if by some miracle of contradiction it would help. Logically, drinking would be even less advisable than eating fried fish. But still.</p><p>Florion asked, “So how’s the wife?” just because he didn’t have any energy to keep to the customary low-key insult exchange, and also really didn’t want to discuss humans. They were alright in his books. Not a threat, at the very least. Now if only everyone else thought the same, surely then…</p><p>Lideo managed to produce a little smile. “She’s fine. We’re leaving in a few. A little trip to Sarema. Are you going to stay in town?”</p><p>“Don’t have a choice.”</p><p>“Like shit you don’t.”</p><p>Usually, dreamers from outside Rheske traveled in and back home by land. The sea was treacherous in early spring, roads were safer, and losing a dreamer to a raging storm would have been some woeful business. They’d have to hunt for a replacement, and everyone would panic, and the logistics of it all would drive just about everyone mad. He was supposed to be scared of the sea, too. Having been found washed ashore and everything. He might have been, of course, if he had any memory of the ordeal. But truth be told, hardtack, potential sores on his ass from all the rumble-tumble on the road, and the sheer boredom of it, scared him way more. Journey by sea was its own reward every time, it helped achieve peace with what he had to do next or made him feel alive again - depending on if he was coming or going. He always came by sea, he always left by sea, and this time, he had double the reason to do it, because it wasn’t just a random crew taking him home, it was Ouhri, for gods’ sake.</p><p>Leaving with some caravan heading south right now was out of the question. Leaving on a cargo ship heading south was out of the question. He’d never hear the end of it if he did, he didn’t much care for hearing the beginning.</p><p>So, he now had at least three weeks left to kill. And killing time was neither in his nature nor a good way to achieve peace of mind. Even without the fix he felt the urge to <em> do something</em>.</p><p>He said, “I don't. Honest.”</p><p>She scoffed. “So you’ll be staying in the house then.”</p><p>He repeated, “Don’t have a choice,” and kicked another pebble.</p><p>During fall the large three story house has always filled with dreamers and, more often than not, some of their families. Spouses, usually. The latter stayed there for a few days to say goodbye. There was never any risk, nobody died going under, but the fear, irrational as it might be, was palpable, unshakable and always <em> there, </em> so the last days for families were not so much tactful conversations, as they were lots of loud desperate sex and so, <em> so </em> much booze. He was always alone, so Florion chose one of the smaller rooms, and the noise coming from outside of it made him feel even more alone, despite the fix. He always took great care to arrive no sooner than three days before the plunge.</p><p>Now all of the lodgings were empty, windows shut, hearths cold, most furniture covered with cloth, waiting for some dignitaries to come over the summer and occupy them or, if no one did, to stay like this, in dust and silence, until the next late fall. He’s never seen that street among greenery. It was always either the reddish brown dying out for his arrival, or the bleak nakedness of half frozen bark for his departure. Now he might. The buds were already forming.</p><p>And he was going to take the biggest room this time. And maybe sleep on the table or on the floor and eat off the harpsichord and scream bawdy songs in the bath and walk around naked because no one would mind. No one would be there.</p><p>It was going to be lonely, but a new kind of lonely.</p><p>Lideo said, “So you remember, huh.”</p><p>“Remember what?”</p><p>“Him visiting you. Can’t imagine anyone else telling you about our little exchange. He probably sat there and talked your drowning ears off about how I’m nothing but a cold hearted bird.”</p><p>“I remember him, yeah. At least some of it. Although I don’t recall him using those precise words. I bet he didn’t. He’s tactful, you know. Polite. That’s why they like him.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure,” she said and smiled sardonically, as if to some private thought of hers that he knew she wouldn’t share. Then: “I don’t, you know. Remember. Allegedly she used to come over almost daily to tell me how she’s doing, and how her day went. I either don’t remember or don’t hear her. Two years ago told her to keep a journal instead. So that I read it after.”</p><p>He said, “I’m sorry.” She’s never mentioned this before.</p><p>Right now, she was yet again staring at the horizon which now had a discernible dot on it.</p><p>Florion asked, “Is that Hel?”</p><p>Lideo still didn’t answer, but she needn’t have.</p><p>She also didn’t say “I can’t keep doing this to her,” this time, but she did tell it to him last fall, deliriously drunk on the floor, and she was the only one to voice and, probably, to think such things. It was also that night that she told him to “never ever do it, Rosebush, just don’t do it, do not subject anyone to this torture”, as if he didn’t already know never to do it. And then she started crying, and threw up on the carpet. She might not have remembered most if it. Or any of it.</p><p>“Do you think the Head Librarian is hiding from me?”</p><p>Lideo scoffed and said, “I don’t think, I know. Fucker’s probably in the mountains by now, or on the northernmost beach, battling some unfortunate crab for his shell to hide in.”</p><p>Just great.</p><p>He muttered, “I don’t want to go to the house. Back to the clinic, even less so.”</p><p>“Well then, what <em> do </em> you want?”</p><p>There was a bulky wooden box nearby. It seemed relatively clean, empty and unattended, if not discarded. Florion longed for it, and his gaze had betrayed that longing. Lideo noticed. He was clearly not leaving. He has resigned himself to sitting here and waiting for that fishing vessel with her.</p><p>Just like that time two years ago when she sat and waited with him for the ship that’d take him home, to his father's belated memorial.</p><p>“Go sit, you seal turd in training,” she said amicably, and turned back to the sea.</p><p>“Got any food?”</p><p>She fished out a slightly withered apple from the pocket of her jerkin, then produced a flask from her belt.</p><p>"Thank you." He asked, pointing to the flask, “Is this going to make me drunk?”</p><p>“Maybe if you’re a badger?”</p><p>He accepted the offer, sat down with a groan befitting an old man, took a bite of the apple (his gums hurt too, and his jaw bones, can they even <em> do </em> that?) and washed it down with what turned out to be dried apricots juice. He felt like crying. So did his stomach, apparently. He didn’t let it.</p><p>The weather, at least, was nice. A clear sky, a temperature that’s just this side of warm, and only the slightest of breezes. The latter didn’t stop the vessel from approaching relatively fast. The people on it must have been stoking up the engine. He thought he saw a thin ribbon of smoke rising up from it. But his eyes, and looking too intently, well, those hurt too.</p><p>As if hearing his thoughts, Lideo glanced over her shoulder and said, “You are a damnable mess right now, Rosebush.”</p><p>“Yeah, no shit. Anything new you want to tell me?”</p><p>“The glassmith up on Tanbark Road is looking for a second since his main girl got too wide to work. She’s due next month.”</p><p>And he’s due to leave next month. Everyone wins.</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“Sod off.”</p><p>Florion smiled. He felt a bit better now. At least, mind-wise. The odd feeling of having forgotten something important lingered, and it was giving him a shade of anxiety still, but he pushed it away.</p><p>The ship that turned out to actually be a small procession of fishing vessels sailing in a row, was unraveling and fast approaching but still quite far away. He didn’t know Lideo did this. He didn’t know if it was a new thing. All he knew was, it wouldn’t be prudent to ask when he may simply observe. He suspected he knew the reason, or thought he knew. If he was in Lideo’s skin, he’d try to understand what it was like for <em> them</em>. Just… waiting.</p><p>But he was Ouhri’s friend, and he already knew.</p><p>Florion closed his eyes. His mind felt wide awake, yet his whole body screamed that he was dying of exhaustion.</p><p>They must have planted the seeds by now. All seven they’d gotten out. Except he was sure there had to be eight. He remembered <em> eight </em> very clearly. And, certainly, what the eighth one was. This was gnawing at him, too. You can’t trust memories such as these, no? Maybe he failed. No, impossible, he’d never failed. But he wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out just now that Ouhri never did come to visit him, and the latter’s encounter with Lideo has never actually happened. There is the <em> task</em>, and then there’s the rest, which is always unclear and messy.</p><p>New sounds distracted him. There was some movement back at the warehouse already. Someone was rolling down a wheelbarrow, and there were planks being laid next to the wharf. Back when he was a child, he thought of Rheske as a rural paradise. It’s grown since. They were <em> rushing</em>. But then, with what’s happened right before this winter, he shouldn’t have been surprised. His surprise has been drowned in anger, and doubt, and the sheer uselessness of arguments about the matter.</p><p>The sea still smelled a lot nicer in this port than in Iquinous’, so there was that. He vaguely remembered telling someone about Iquinous’ port, and the unappealing scents, and the clatter of the shipyard. When was that? <em> Who </em> was that?</p><p>His gaze scraped past the upper boardwalk, then did a double take. A figure was standing there, a girl evidently observing him. She looked unfamiliar, but clearly very young, at least ten years his junior, and wearing Temple attire. Her hair was a bushy mass of virid curls, and her face looked vaguely judgemental and just a tad angry.</p><p>Florion turned around to make sure it was really him she’s been staring at, then turned back and mouthed, “What?” looking up at her. The girl grimaced and pointed an accusing finger at him. What has he done now? Well, he would have to get up and <em> go </em> up to find out, and his ass, and thighs, and calves, and knees, and lower back, all voted a resounding <em> nay</em>. The girl stomped her foot, snorted soundlessly, and ran off. Was it about the seeds? Did she know? He didn’t blame her for her anger, if she did. Maybe it was about Ouhri. Didn’t Ouhri mention a girl while visiting him?.. Iquinous’ girls and boys loved him, and detested him, because he always left with the tide. They weren’t hateful of each other, just of the sea. In Iquinous they knew Florion primarily as “Ouhri’s friend”. Maybe the adoration, popularity, and, with them, grievances have finally moved cities. Well, nothing he could do about it. Besides, she would get over it, as all the others did, as everyone always did get over everything around these parts.</p><p>Still, Florion couldn’t help but feel confused. It was one of the most prominent feelings since he’s awoken.</p><p>“What even is going on,” he mused.</p><p>“Don’t know, don’t care,” Lideo muttered, her back to him.</p><p>After that, haze. Maybe a quarter of an hour has elapsed, or maybe a whole hour, before they were disembarking, and Lideo kept standing, stiff as a board, and waiting for her wife, Heleine, to wash the blood off her rugged hands before coming over to embrace her.</p><p>It felt then like the smell of blood was instantly permeating his skin. He did not care for it.</p><p>The deck was covered in blood as well, a permanent crust they’ve stopped trying to wash off. And the heads that had been cut off - giant, hideous things with two rows of sharp pointed teeth on each jowl - were unloaded separately from the carcasses.</p><p>You shoot the head with a poisonous dart gun to knock out an elasma, and then you have mere minutes to chop said head off before the toxin spreads throughout the rest of the body. The heads, as well as the guts and everything else that isn’t edible, were then processed into a lot of useful things.</p><p>One needs to possess remarkable precision and strength to do it all properly. Heleine did. There was a sharp briskness to everything about her, even the way she moved and talked.</p><p>“You coming with us?” she asked instead of all the seemly <em> hello'</em>s and <em> how-are-you-feeling'</em>s.</p><p>“Where are you headed?”</p><p>“To eat and then to wash.”</p><p>Both of these sounded agreeable, however <em> going </em>didn’t. But he was stubborn, so he managed.</p><p>The communal kitchens were the same, just the way he remembered them, except for the smells, which varied from season to season. He didn’t know if he could swallow even a tiny piece of fried elasma right now. Most likely not, not so soon after the docks. He didn’t know if it would agree with him anyway. Those who brought him along shared a pie and some early spring greens with entirely too many crushed nuts and too much sesame oil. He settled for some pottage that had no death in it at all, and claimed victory over three whole spoonfuls before realising all but the first were mistakes. So he proceeded to sip water and silently listen to idle chatter around him. He got his fix, too, just when everyone else did. It didn’t help. The buzzing stopped, the edges of the anger and frustration smoothed out somewhat, and his mouth no longer felt like a compost bin, but this was about it. Tether, still missing.</p><p>The fisherfolk that came along were joined by some members of their families, and they were all really happy to see each other. They greeted him, or Heleine introduced him to those he didn’t know, but this made him feel even more out of place. He’s never stayed in Rheske this long, not since he was a teenager, and barely knew any of the people in town beside other dreamers of which Lideo was the only one present, and she was now ignoring him (not that he minded). Someone passed him a cup, and he downed it in one enormous gulp, thinking it’s wine or spirits, and feeling masochistic and slightly rebellious, but it was just lukewarm herbal tea. He knew the taste, it was one of <em> his, </em>and it was revolting.</p><p>“You feel better now, you hear,” that someone said. Did he really look that bad that it made strangers turn involuntarily into mother hens?</p><p>He groaned, “Much obliged,” and returned the cup.</p><p>They all then went to the square for an evening drink and a show, as was customary here, and Florion, creaking, and very nearly coming apart at the seams, went with them because this was still preferable to the <em> house </em> and to the <em> completely alone</em>.</p><p>He saw the human girl sitting on one of the long benches, but she didn’t see him, being as short as she was and hidden by so many backs. Her eyes were puffy, she’s been crying, he could tell. It didn’t steal much of her bizarre, unwonted yet gentle beauty, but it made his heart ache for her, if only for a fleeting moment.</p><p>He saw as well, her curls somewhat tamed by now, the girl from the docks clinging to the human, a green angry beanpole next to her. And she <em> was </em> staring at him and didn’t avert her eyes, and made a face. The face said “You stink,” or perhaps, “Screw you”.</p><p>Then, if she was friends with the human, it <em> must have been </em>about the seeds. Odd that information got out so fast. Still, he wanted to approach her and ask, “What is your problem with me?” but for a moment, he thought he knew that it wasn’t about seeds at all. The moment in question was also very fleeting, and immediately replaced by another bout of deep confusion, and by more people that hid both the curly kid and her human friend from view.</p><p>There was a stage there, with an elongated seashell structure built around it that intricately improved sound. Right now there was a couple on the stage, play-acting a comedic number, apparently popular with the audience, as those closest to the performance were roaring with laughter, but there was entirely too much conversation around him to hear anything from where he was sitting.</p><p>Someone else passed him a flask. Florion simply held it in his hand for a while and passed it back.</p><p>The couple left the stage to thunderous applause from the first rows and a few belated polite claps from further away. They were then replaced by a gadulka player. The conversations started to slowly die out. Probably because music was way more welcome at this hour than dirty jokes.</p><p>Florion sat up straight and his eyes began an almost involuntary search for the human. He found the angry curly kid instead, and used her successfully as a waymark. He actually had to stand up a little to see: the human girl sank down, as if willing herself invisible. He soon realised why that was: the curly one and another sister, this one with a more dignified look, and a few years older, were nudging the human and talking both her ears off.</p><p>The human finally mouthed, “Alright”, a doomed look on her face, and reached for a tall bag by her feet and then inside of it. He turned away. He didn’t know why he was prying.</p><p>Snippets of a continued conversation still reached his ears, something about the weather and today’s catch. The fiddler left the stage, accompanied by disappointed groans and shouts of “Oh come on!”, as quite a few people seemingly just got to dancing to his tune.</p><p>He vaguely thought of leaving as well. Then another instrument started playing, and then someone was singing, and he no longer thought of leaving, or of anything else at all.</p><p>It was the human girl. She held something that resembled a harp, but small, in comparison, and more sturdy looking, and plucked the strings with her fingers, and sang sweetly in a language he didn’t speak but knew the sound of, and what came out was beauty and anguish. Conversations hushed completely, and one of the toughest, burliest fisherwomen started sniffling into a handkerchief to his right.</p><p>And somewhere to his left Lideo scoffed. He almost hissed at her to shut up.</p><p>Instead, Heleine said softly, “Come off it, honey, she’s not that bad”, and Florion agreed and disagreed at the same time. “Not bad”? She was amazing!</p><p>Except she wasn’t, not really. Her voice cracked a couple of times, and she was maybe a bit too quiet for such a crowd and such a stage, but she and her song hooked him, entangled him and held him in place, because…</p><p>She kept her eyes closed until she didn’t, and lifted her head and looked up, and he thought she saw him, and looked into his eyes, and for a heartbeat he expected her voice would break again, but it didn’t.</p><p>Why was this so familiar? The melody, the sounds of the instrument he was sure he’d never heard before, and the look in her reddened eyes?</p><p>The song was over, and he remained petrified, because it kept playing in his head, like an echo in a deep cavern. Four notes, pause, and then two, over and over. He barely registered the polite applause that followed, and how conversations resumed, and how the fiddler was all but pushed back onto the stage to people cheering, whistling and clapping unanimously.</p><p>The human slipped back towards her seat, momentarily obstructed by someone’s back, and he spun round to see her, but all he found was another angry look from the <em> beanpole </em> directed at him. This time it was more of a “Please go die in a ditch somewhere” type of look.</p><p>He stood up abruptly. That’s it, he needed to know what exactly was happening. There were, however, too many people, and in too tightly packed rows, and when he finally reached the place he needed to reach, the human and the curly kid were gone, and only the dignified looking sister remained.</p><p>“May I help you?” she asked.</p><p>“Excuse me, where are the ladies that sat here with you?”</p><p>She waved away.</p><p>“Just left.”</p><p>Florion looked in the direction she was pointing to. There was nothing there but a narrow road leading away, soaked in darkness.</p><p>He thought of asking something like, “Would you happen to know what that girl’s problem is?” but thought better of it. He got a feeling that this sister also didn’t like him that much, for some reason. Her features appeared vaguely familiar.</p><p>The fisherfolk called him over once again. Despite the fact that the music was still going strong, they were up and headed for the nearest bathhouse. Still feeling disarranged, he joined them. He wasn’t quite ready to leave yet, and sorely needed at least a few minutes in the steam room, if not for anything else but to get warm, because he missed being warm most of all.</p><p>That’s where he noticed it first. He didn’t see it even when he was undressing absentmindedly, or passing naked in front of a mirror, but now, sitting on a wooden bench, slouched, soaked hair clinging to his back, his elbows on his knees, his fingers wiping his wet brow, he saw it. Steam was clouding his vision, so he got up and left the room, and found some light. There was a marking on his abdomen. It wasn’t the elusive <em> eighth</em>, no, it was a spring flower, white as snow. It used to be one of the first he saw after emerging from his winter slumber, so he wondered if it had been one of his mind’s ways to hurry him along and force him into waking up. Sure, he liked snowdrops, but he was up now, so what gives? Florion stretched the skin around it with his thumb and forefinger, and willed it away. It didn’t go. It didn’t hurt like it would when they were <em> going</em>. It stayed there, mocking; some kind of fallacy, an enigmatic aberration.</p><p>“I’m up, you know,” he told the flower, out loud, and doubted his own words. Awake. He didn’t feel it.</p><p>The marking, together with that little place in his mind that felt like a dark cavity in which memories drown, was starting to drive him insane.</p><p>Florion washed off the sweat, got dressed, said his goodbyes, and left. It was dark outside, and he very nearly got lost on his way to the house, because no one bothered to light a single street lamp on the alley it was on, or on the sleepy ones surrounding it. But he managed, because his feet loyally carried him along. They remembered.</p><p>Inside, it smelled of fug and desolation. He found the nearest hearth by touch, felt around for flamestones. He stumbled upon a handful of them soon, maybe remaining here from the fall, or, maybe, laid for him by someone before his arrival.</p><p>He lit the hearth and then the lamps, and looked around what was the ground floor’s sitting room. The outlines of the sofa he sat on once with an empty bottle in his hand, while Lideo was bawling on the floor in front of it, were clearly distinguishable under the dusty cloth. He pulled it off. No, if someone was here, they touched nothing as of yet. They would come over tomorrow, to tidy up the room he’d choose, but for now, he didn’t want to choose. He’d stay right here. He felt lost, feeble, and with strings still being plucked in his ears, along with an insistent irritating hum of exhaustion.</p><p>Florion opened the window and stood next to it, until he couldn’t stand no more.</p><p>There it was, the bitter irony of it: following months of sleep, he needed rest again after only one day without. They called them special, and probably with good reason, but at times like these he didn’t feel special at all. Mortal, fragile, and, now, with potential blood on his hands.</p><p>Somewhere deep in the night his dreams quickly spilled over into a vague and <em> new </em> nightmare, and when he woke up, damp with sweat, he was suffocating in dry, racking sobs. He breathed, “Father?” into the darkness, but there was no one there.</p><p>There was no one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Light Angst</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Bloom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Comatose Green guy no longer comatose and everything hurts<br/>*Tsundere friend gives food and support but he's still feeling like crap, nice concert, though, but what is this tattoo where do I have it removed, daaaad</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“We have further discerned that they do not, in fact, use rings as a symbol of matrimony, but as an adornment, and that their women have no shame or modesty or fear of God and mistakenly consider themselves equals to men.” </em>
</p><p>It was beautiful and sunny outside, a final inhale before the bloom. She didn’t want to be outside. She didn’t want to <em> be </em>at all. What she did want was to continue hiding in one of the side dormitories, and never to be found. Least of all, by Mahri. Alas, of all people.  </p><p>Mahri barged into the room, giggling and calling her name, and yelping, “Did you hear he’s awake? Did you see him? Did he thank you?”</p><p>Aoife lifted her head - a cornered animal with nowhere to run. Her eyes, probably so bloodshot at this point that they could stay even the Mother Superior’s hand. Mahri, upon seeing them, was petrified. </p><p>“I heard,” Aoife said. </p><p>Mahri asked tentatively, “And?” while pouting in a very unfamiliar way.</p><p>Aoife burst into tears again.  </p><p>To her credit, Mahri did not ask any more questions, or coo over her, she just hugged her and allowed her to cry her heart out. Just the way her mother did when she was little, Aoife realised. The tears were scarce, not many of them left. </p><p>Finally, Aoife let go and sniffled, “I saw him, yes. He’s… Not…” </p><p><em> He doesn’t remember. </em> How would she explain what that meant, precisely? And what for?</p><p>“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”</p><p>Would that be possible? She had learned of his existence only a month ago, and became instantly entranced by his looks alone, or so it seemed. The ogling of him while he slept followed, and no one in their right mind would call this healthy. Pathetic, sure. But not healthy or love-forming. She first talked to him, and not <em> at </em> him, a little over a week ago, if this could even be considered talking. And while this week has been life changing in every way she could have imagined, was it enough to cultivate anything other than infatuation? </p><p>But Mahri didn’t even know about the talking and <em> everything else</em>. Least of all, everything else. What she saw was only that: a girl visiting a sleeping man, and becoming enamoured with his features, and she still somehow permitted herself to call it <em> being in love</em>, with all the significance a sixteen year old could weave into it.</p><p><em> No, I’m not, </em>would have been an honest answer, but she didn’t give it. </p><p>“And he spurned you.”</p><p>“No, he… Not precisely. Just. I don’t think it’s going to work.”</p><p>Mahri took a long and very inquisitive look at her puffed face. </p><p>“Sooo, where is he now?”</p><p>“What?” Aoife reached for a soaked rag that used to be a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes again, and blew her nose, too distracted to realize the implication of the question, or the fact that Mahri was already standing by the door. “Eastern gate… So the fishing docks, maybe. What...”</p><p>“I’m going to kill him,” Mahri said pleasantly. </p><p>“Leave it, Mahri. Please, just leave it. Promise me you won’t do anything, or say anything. Please.” </p><p>Mahri pouted again, this time in a more familiar way, and asked, “Can I smack him, at least?”</p><p>Aoife rasped, exasperated and drained, “Please don’t. Please… Don’t.” </p><p>“Fine. I’m going to go and bring you something to drink. It’ll just be a minute.”</p><p>She didn’t return in a minute, or two, or ten. Aoife knew then that her pleas fell on deaf ears. Mahri was young, and like all adolescents, whether human or aldamaari, she craved drama that was public, demonstrative and heart-wrenching. She was also a good friend… In her own way. And if Aoife knew Mahri at all, she would indeed approach Florion, smack him on the shoulder with something, call him a name, and run off, triumphant, and that’s all there would be. Even if not… He didn’t remember. He would not understand what’s happening. He would dismiss it. </p><p>Aoife felt too exhausted to worry, but she willed her legs to walk again, and willed her throat to unclench. It might have been her first heartbreak, but not nearly her first woe. She always managed to get up and move on. If she didn’t know how to do the latter, she wouldn’t have survived to this day. </p><p>But was she moving on, truly? Was it not hope that helped her to her feet this time? </p><p>Dreams do <em> come back</em>, after all. </p><p>She did give him a promise, after all. </p><p>Even if she didn’t believe it was one that can be kept. </p><p>But she did give it. </p><p>And the nasty little voice in her head was silent this time, perhaps, gloating, already satiated by her misery. </p><p>She’s been happy here for two years, at home, at peace. A silly juvenile infatuation cannot, must not interfere with that. That’s what she told herself when she left the dormitories and stepped outside, squinting at the afternoon sun. What she told herself when she returned to work, sinking her hands elbow deep into the cold plowed soil of the garden, trying not to think of what it reminded her of. What she tried to hammer in when she saw Mahri again, and the latter kissed her and said, “Sorry! I swear I only gave him one very ireful <em> stare</em>, that’s all! Maybe two!” What she repeated time and time again in her head going through all the proper motions of the day, until it was over. </p><p>It all fell apart in the evening, instantly, when Mahri and Maeve talked her into ascending the stage again, and she saw him in the crowd. It fell apart, It crashed, and it burned, and lay in smoldering ruins.  </p><p><em> What are these demons that you sang of, little creature? </em> </p><p>He was staring right at her. He was listening. And she was choking on <em> useless, futile </em> hope, and singing only for him, seeing only him, thinking only of him. </p><p>She’d given him a promise. This was her way of keeping it. The only way she knew at that moment. </p><p>Now, he didn’t seem indifferent, but simply tired, and lost, and his cheeks have sunken slightly. </p><p>...and his eyes were pools she wanted to drown in, and she longed for him, and wanted to be his more than she'd ever wanted anything in the world.</p><p>But it was too much to bear. She averted her gaze, holding back tears. </p><p>
  <em> Everything that you fear is calling you and drawing near.  </em>
</p><p>She barely made it off the stage. </p><p>Maeve said, “That was beautiful.”</p><p>She didn’t feel <em> beautiful</em>. She felt desperate, and pitiful, she felt like sinking underneath the ground. Could he have truly seen and heard what she meant him to, just now? Or was it only this again: a stranger staring at him, with a sorrowful face, suffocated by emotions he neither knew nor cared for? </p><p>The ground didn’t open for her. She chose to run away instead, with Mahri tracing her footsteps close behind. It seemed as if Mahri saw her in a new light now, and followed that light as a moth follows flame. She didn’t object to her presence, just to the meaning she lended to this whole situation. Aoife didn’t think of suffering, and pain, and loss as dramatic or <em> interesting</em>, or as a cause for conspiratorial gossip, and friendly acts of petty revenge. Except… wasn’t it taboo for the aldamaari to stay alone when being consumed by grief? Was she interpreting the situation correctly, or wrong yet again? </p><p>“It’s alright, I’ll sleep on the floor,” said Mahri, as if hearing and confirming her thoughts. They reached an intersection, and Aoife stopped and turned to face her. </p><p>“Thank you,” she said. “However, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I would rather be alone right now.”</p><p>“Alone? But...”</p><p>Aoife said, “It’s a human thing,” because there was nothing else she could say that required as little explanation as she was capable of right now. </p><p>And it worked. </p><p>“Oh. Please come visit tomorrow?”</p><p>She said, “I will”, and kissed Mahri goodbye. And then there was a lot of regret for this goodbye because maybe, just maybe, the aldamaari were right all along, and no matter how your stupid miserable head tells you that you need to be alone with your grief, you mustn’t. Because sometimes you alone cannot reconcile with it, and because by midnight your chest will be racked with sobs, and hopelessness will creep up on you, and stand guard by your bed, waiting to swallow you whole. </p><p>Day two, and she did visit, and Mahri asked “Are you alright?”</p><p>She said, “I’m bleeding”, and it was a half-truth. She downed some opy milk, along with the dose that went into the other end, and her dreams were as empty as fresh clay pots. </p><p>Day three, she nearly forgot to water the little sprout, and turned to it, and said “I’m sorry,” and put it on the windowsill that saw the most sunlight, and burst into tears. There was an insect banging quietly into the glass on the other side of the window. So early in the spring, it felt uncanny. Aoife wanted to let it in, to shelter it, but then discerned, with difficulty, through a veil of tears, that it was a wasp or a hornet. </p><p>The weavers were reading an epic love story, with all the ooh’s and aah’s that this usually elicited. She hated being there, she hated having ears, she hated having a heart. She dropped her shuttle thrice. Lensi brought her some candied ginger. The package didn’t have a name on it, but candied ginger was always Mahri’s favourite.  </p><p>She prayed Florion’d come in dreams, and even nearly slipped into the old habit of actually praying by the bed at night. But he didn’t. Instead, her dreams were once again old, ominous and dark creatures, with bottomless pools of water, and improbable metal walls surrounding everything, and encroaching emptiness behind them, and not a soul around. </p><p>Day four, she didn’t care for conversations, or for singing, others’ words flew by her. She didn’t remember coming along to the communal kitchen by the market. She saw Florion again, and he was among people she didn’t know, but he seemed content in their company. He laughed at what they said, and sat with them, and ate with them. He was happy without her. Isn’t it what she told herself she wanted? For him to be happy? </p><p>Day five, Mahri approached her, with Shyle in tow, and they knelt next to her on the ground, and hugged her together. </p><p>She asked, “What was that for?”</p><p>Mahri said, “Because,” and they left. </p><p>A few nights of this, and she was completely numb and lost. Aoife didn’t much care for the feeling. </p><p>The little sprout was tiny and helpless, but it was growing. And so did her resolve. She knew she had to do something or she would lose her mind. What life is this: to wake up in the morning thinking of someone who doesn’t really know or care that you exist, to go through every day and every motion as if you’re clockwork, to fall asleep wishing for dreams that never come?  </p><p>Two more weeks or so and he would leave. Would she feel better then? </p><p>She wanted him to be happy, yes. But she wished to be happy, too. If not with him, then by finding a way to be so without him. That way was in complete darkness now, blocked from view. She thought of going to the clinic again. She didn’t. </p><p>Instead she went to see him. If it could be even called that. </p><p>It wasn’t hard to learn where to find him, there weren’t too many dots to connect. And even if there wasn't a crack in a window in the manufactory, a window that now needed replacing, even if she didn’t get a chance to volunteer to go, she’d still go, with no valid reason to. </p><p>Because out of all the things Aoife wanted, this one she could still get: to see him. </p><p>It was very warm in the shop despite the windows being wide open. And empty, it was empty, and the proprietor was not there when she closed the front door behind her and took one tentative step. She could hear unfamiliar sounds coming from the side workroom, and her heart felt like it weighed nothing at all. For a moment Aoife wondered if she would be able to move. Well, there was always the option of running away, wasn’t there? Steadying her breathing, she crossed the room, carefully stepping around crates piled with glassware. Hiding behind the empty doorway, she peeked inside. </p><p>A wave of scorching heat all but hit her in the face, blinding and robbing of breath. She blinked and saw a reign of metal. There were kilns, narrow, open and burning hot. Pails filled with water. Surfaces covered with instruments - some familiar, some looking like nothing she’s ever seen. </p><p>And someone was there, breath heavy in the heat, arms making something hiss just outside her view. </p><p>She peeked a little further; A tentative little squirrel. </p><p>It was him, all alone. Hair tied meticulously up and held back by a kerchief for good measure. Sleeves rolled up, arms bare and glistening, sweat covering every visible inch of skin. He was by a kiln, and then he turned, and there was a fat bead of sweat slowly creeping down his neck, and she felt the desperate need to lick it off, and took a breath of hot air, and it didn’t help. </p><p>He didn’t see her, concentrating only on a long and narrow pipe in his hand, and a mass of something red and molten upon the pipe. She watched him take a step and lean the rod carefully on what must have been a work surface: a low, thick, vertically placed sheet of metal, with a long pail of water behind it. He took a soaked rag from the pail and put it to the middle of the rod, and the latter emitted another angry, defeated hiss. He rolled the rod and blew into it, and didn’t stop rolling even when he reached for instruments to cut or elongate or constrict the molten mass, as if his two arms worked independent of one other, and in perfect unison at the same time. And then what seemed to be a barely formed blob of red began a rapid transformation. It was a mesmerizing, incomparable process to watch, and for a few moments it’s gotten more of her attention than Florion himself. She was now sweating too, and short of breath, but barely noticed it; He stepped away once, twice, each time adding more mass, and cut, and squeezed, and rolled, and rolled, and blew, and rolled again, and it was taking shape. </p><p>
  <em> A flower.  </em>
</p><p>It was a large vase or, perhaps, a streetlamp with a wavy edge: an intricate, multicolored, cheerful thing that resembled a blooming opy more and more with each passing second. Aoife found it every bit as beautiful as she did the one making it. </p><p>Just then a wide smile finally bloomed on his face, from a tiny lopsided bud that was there all this time and, without lifting his gaze from the wondrous creation, he said in his deep voice, made even hoarser by the heat, “Are you going to come in to take a closer look, or should I bring it over?” </p><p>She jumped, and her heart spun, and for a moment she thought there was not enough air in the world to take another breath. He finally looked up, and into her face. His smile was happy, and a little mischievous, and, oh, peerless, as he himself was in her eyes. And just as she thought she’d maybe not die right here after all, and perhaps even find a word or two to say, there came a polite cough from behind her. A “May I help you?” followed, forcing her to turn away. </p><p>His gaze remained a brand upon her mind; His smile, a living thing she pressed close to her heart. It made it beat again and carried her throughout the day, and into the night, and she fell asleep with thoughts of Florion, but not of her loneliness and grief. </p><p>She’d never felt this way before and never imagined one was even capable of feeling it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Angst, Pining</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Fix</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl depressed and heartbroken, but discovers wonders of glass blowing while yearning to discover other types of blowing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “To further enforce this delusion, both men and women wear trousers when the weather is cold, and short breeches when it is hot. Under them, they wear long woolen stockings when the weather is cold, and cotton socks or nothing at all when it is hot. Over them, they wear jerkins and coats made of leather of unknown origin, or mantles made of thick wool, or long narrow jackets with many buttons. Dresses and skirts among women are at the very least not common; however, one of my surviving companions claims to have witnessed men wearing skirts. He swore by God’s Holy Light, so it must be true. Furthermore, some men unbecomingly let their hair grow long and then braid and style it with wax and ribbons and adornments just as women do, and both religiously freshen up their breath with fragrant leaves, no doubt expecting to engage in kissing and lewd acts in public at any given moment!” </em>
</p><p>The fix was setting in. Florion made sure to look for the one who called himself Head Librarian before it consumed him, before he’d lost his ability to properly express rage, or the ability to embrace it fully, and not be detached from it. </p><p>He found the man in his nephew’s wickerwork shop, of all places, and immediately pushed him against the wall, and pinned him with his elbow. Feet dragged, and jackrabbited, and stilled. </p><p>He said, “Still hiding from me, huh.” This, unlike many of the things in his head in these past days, wasn’t a question.  </p><p>The nephew intercepted. There was a “Let’s be reasonable!” here, and, perhaps, a “Please, no violence!” there. It wasn’t about violence. It was about control, of which Florion had so little left, because this man had taken it from him, and claimed it to be for the greater good. Granted, it was still unclear if the man was right. </p><p>“I’m… I was…” the Head Librarian was very old, and not long for this world, all things considered, and Florion momentarily felt bad, and let him go. </p><p><em> This isn’t me. </em> </p><p>The fix <b>was</b> setting in. </p><p>The man said, “I was busy! And yes, you have been told that I'd wait for you, and answer all of your questions, but that was supposed to happen over a month ago! I have business outside of that dusty ancient...”</p><p>
  <em> Or is it?..  </em>
</p><p>He never really knew. Florion unclenched his fist. </p><p>And interrupted, “You don’t seem busy now.”</p><p>“Yes, well… About that...”</p><p>“You don’t. Seem busy. Now,” he repeated, a calm menace. “As it happens, I no longer want answers, I want guarantees.”</p><p>“But… B-but I cannot give them!” the man bleeted, and Florion thought he saw a glimpse of remorse in his eyes. Or was it fear? </p><p>“It was your decision to make. At least own up to it.”</p><p>“It was… And I am.”</p><p>The nephew hurried over with two wicker chairs. The Head Librarian lowered himself into one. Florion remained standing. He wasn’t waiting for an invitation, or anything of the sort; He knew he’d have better chances if he towered over. The man truly was a weak, feeble thing. Florion took a step towards his chair. Yes, it was the right decision to make.</p><p>“Please… I beg of you, don’t be angry. You know! You’ve seen plenty! You know what they do. Aren’t you scared?”</p><p>At the moment all he felt was fury but it was quickly fading. He remembered the beautiful and sad human songstress. Was she afraid of her own brethren too, like all of those humans in Iquinous? Like this pitiful shriveled servant of his god? </p><p>Florion said, “Never of them”. </p><p>“A fallacy of youth, then.” </p><p>And saying this out loud was a fallacy of being a useless old prick, no?  </p><p>The nephew interrupted, “He’s got four grandchildren, you know!”</p><p>Florion laughed. It was a mirthless throaty laugh that made both other men shudder and recoil. </p><p>They tell him what to do, they vaguely mention why he needs to do it, they plead with him not to ask questions, they promise that all will be explained in great detail by this man here once Florion wakes up, they send him under, and he crawls out four months later, nearly defeated, racked with doubt, and all this man does is share some common fears that Florion already knew about. </p><p>A deceived and tricked patriot who is so good at what he does. </p><p>“It will not be used unless needed. Unless they make a move first.”</p><p>The Head Librarian swallowed, “But what if… What if they attack at sea? What if...”</p><p>Florion clenched his fist again. It hasn’t gone without notice. </p><p>He was a dreamer. It’s not that he was untouchable. It’s that replacing him would be a hassle. Caretakers didn’t like hassles. Least of all, they hated bothering Kenn with them. </p><p>And they relied on Florion’s decency. As long as they possessed some too, he would return it. He wasn’t stupid. He already knew the fear was real. He simply doubted it was justified. </p><p>“Would you be able to live with yourself, then? If you used any of it? Would it not drive you mad with grief, even though you would have saved your <em> four grandchildren</em>?”</p><p>These last words tasted like bile. </p><p>The old man said, very quietly, “I do not know.”</p><p>And there it was. </p><p>Just as there was a reason to kill all of their prey mercifully, and only when they had to kill at all. <em> And conscience is indeed a dreadful nuisance in our line of work, Lideo. </em> </p><p>He felt petty, and drained, and so very tired. And missing, he was missing something, and it hurt. Not a stranger to missing things he didn’t remember, Florion, nevertheless, could discern that this thing was a new one. A new hole ripped in the fraying fabric of him. </p><p>“What have you done with the eighth?”</p><p>The old man coughed, and frowned, and asked, perplexed, “The eighth? But there were seven.” </p><p>Florion could usually tell when people were lying, and this man wasn’t. He might have been ignorant, but he’d told no lies just now.  </p><p>“Are you sure?” he asked very slowly, punctuating each word. </p><p>“Yes! I’m sure, why, I swear to you, there were only seven!”</p><p>The nephew was now chewing on lamia loudly, stiff in a darkened corner.  </p><p>The fix. </p><p> </p><p>It tethered you to others; Not like elanthie tethers you to dreams but in a non-intrusive way. A low, pleasant hum of life that’s always there and that you are always a part of. So that you don’t have to even look around when you search for belonging. So that you are reminded that you are never alone, and that you fit in, and always will, and that the universe accepts you. </p><p>And healthy teeth, and insusceptibility to dozens of diseases that plagued humans… Well, that was good, too. </p><p>He was an aberration. The fix didn’t fix him properly. And Florion did not mind it. Sometimes he didn’t want to be happy, and content, and to belong. Sometimes he wanted to feel pain and to inflict it. He’s never acted on these feelings before. He didn’t think he would. He did realise the deviance, the useless abnormality of such urges, after all. Lideo was the same, he suspected. Zakiyah certainly was. He also suspected that it was a dreamer thing.</p><p>Humans didn’t use it, humans couldn’t. For them it could have been a mild antiseptic at best. Did the human songstress feel rage, anger, apathy, crushing loneliness? Did she grapple with it all of the time? The answer hovered just over the edge. </p><p>But he’s pulled one made for humans just this year. He managed. It was a beautiful thing, centuries in the making, perhaps. At least it did feel old and slumbering for way longer than he’s lived. It was to be his <em> eighth</em>. His reconciliation with the other seven. The word stirred uneasily in his mind. <em> Poison, poison, poison.  </em></p><p>The others, grown and brewed properly, were all poison meant for humans. Poison to kill their livestock and infest their rivers, wells and fields. Poison to make their women infertile and kill babes in wombs. Poison that could inflict such pain that they’d wish they were dead and would claw their own throats out. Poison that would inevitably drive a human mad and force one to take the lives of those he loves most and then, his own. And all of those, completely harmless to the aldamaari. Unsightly weeds, and nothing else. </p><p>His reconciliation… Their reconciliation. A chance for the other seven never to be used. It was now missing. </p><p>Or withheld from him. </p><p>But he chose to think, <em> missing</em>. </p><p>He knew, at least, that he didn't imagine it.</p><p>“Tell him about the girl, uncle,” the nephew said, now subdued and unafraid, and <em> tethered</em>. </p><p>Florion turned sharply. “What girl?”</p><p>The Head Librarian coughed again and began explaining, to his nephew this time, and in a rather dismissive tone, “She’s harmless. A simpleton. All the letters sent to her by humans are intercepted and answered in her hand with lies. They do not suspect a thing. She cannot summon them.”</p><p>“What. Girl,” Florion repeated. </p><p>“Human girl,” squeaked the nephew. “And, I meant, tell him what she did.”</p><p>“Oh... That… Stupid thing, really,” the old man turned to Florion. “She watched you.” </p><p>“Watched me.” </p><p>As if there weren’t already enough eyes watching him while he slept.  </p><p>“She’s been coming to visit you for weeks. She had been watched too, for a time. No wrongdoings. She seemed to have taken pity on you. She thought you were,” and the old man scoffed at the next word, “lonely! Then Drifeo asked us to leave the girl alone.”</p><p>Florion mused, gears already turning in his mind, “That so.” </p><p>“Yes, and Drifeo was rather persuasive on the subject. I tend to trust her when she tells me not to worry. The girl is harmless, as I said. Still, as a gesture of goodwill… And so you know that I do not hide things from you...” </p><p>Florion was already at the door. He’s had enough of this man and this pointless conversation. He wasn’t sure, now, why he bothered. At least it might lead him to something more worthwhile… Namely, the girl. </p><p>And maybe, just maybe, to getting an answer to a question he didn’t know. </p><p>Stalking around the Temple dormitories, he hid until he saw, and cornered the curly kid. She jumped and yelped, “You!” as if he was a piece of mud on her shoe.</p><p>And shook her mane of hair dismissively. </p><p>“Tell me about the human,” he said. </p><p>She said, “Pffshaw!” and turned to leave. </p><p>Godsdamnit. He didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to play this game but he grabbed her by the sleeve nonetheless. </p><p>“Here’s the thing,” he said as she was making small noises and pretending to struggle, a faked look of indignation on her face. “You’re friends with her, and I saw her very nearly tear-stained. And I saw you, pointing angrily at me. I’m not an idiot. At least, not all of the time. I can put two and two together. Here, you got me. Congratulations. Now. Was she crying about something that’s related to me?”</p><p>Did she know about the <em> seven</em>? By gods, he hoped not. </p><p>The curly kid pushed him away, forcefully, and ostentatiously shook non-existent dirt off her sleeve. </p><p>“I thought you talked to her,” she said, voice changed now for some reason. Before this, he understood very little. Now, even less.</p><p>“No, I didn’t.”</p><p>“Well, you should then.”</p><p>“And I will. But I’m asking you, now. I’d rather thought my question was clear.”</p><p>She wrapped a curl around her forefinger. </p><p>“Tell me about your sailor friend, first,” and she stuck her tongue out at him. </p><p>Always the same song, isn’t it. Always Ouhri. He would have been surprised if it wasn’t about Ouhri, to be completely honest. </p><p>“Is this your way of telling me the human girl wants him?”</p><p>The kid said, “Ha!” and then: “She’s so-o-o not interested in your friend. But I am! So, an exchange?”</p><p>By the gods. And here he thought his was the most respectable profession. Worthy of worship, his father once said. “Pffshaw” indeed, and then some. </p><p>“He snores,” Florion answered, face blank, less than unamused. “Like a seal in heat. And when he eats, he holds his fork like a hunting knife. But he will stop talking to anyone who tells him meat is good for him. His mother calls him “pumpion”. He sometimes cries when he looks at the sunset.” </p><p>Granted, this also required Ouhri to be very, very drunk. </p><p>The kid sighed, “Me too.” </p><p>“And he’s never gonna settle. He’ll have you once or twice, and then move on,” Florion finished ruthlessly. “Now, my question.” </p><p>The kid looked at him with all the resentment she could muster. </p><p>“Maybe I’ll be the one to move on!” she declared. “Maybe I just want a taste!” </p><p>“Fine, good for you then. Look, we’re going in circles. You are able to answer yes or no, right? Come on, yes or no. Was the human upset because of me?”</p><p>“She’s got a name, you know,” and the girl pouted and then made a face at him. </p><p>“And what would that name be?”</p><p>Another case of stuck out tongue, another grimace. </p><p>He suddenly felt like finding a wall and banging his head against it because it might have turned out to be a more gratifying experience. </p><p>He spun to leave, and did. </p><p>“Wait, no!” the kid yelled to his back. “I’ll tell you, come back!”</p><p>He didn’t. He had better ways. Granted, they required more planning than this disaster of a conversation, and some snooping around, too. But he would manage. </p><p>The human girl was visiting him. She didn’t do anything unseemly. The Head Librarian said she thought him lonely. She was smiling when he approached her and then she wasn’t. As if she was expecting something from him, and he didn’t give it. A few hours later she had eyes puffed by crying, and her insufferable young friend seemed to think he was the worst person to walk the land, and now acted all defensive and thought he’d talked to her. </p><p>He remembered Lideo. Her standing on the shore, wistfulness instead of her usual cruel indifference, and how she told him of her wife’s visits. He wondered if Heleine continued visiting after being asked not to, after being told it was useless. Most likely, she did. Most likely, she didn’t think much of it. </p><p>If the human girl thought him lonely, the human girl was right and understood loneliness better than anyone else. Maybe even better than the other dreamers. They at least had each other when they slept. A uniting presence, like knowing there’s someone behind a wall, someone who will hear you scream and come to your aid if something were to happen to you. They had the waking world to look forward to, they would open their eyes and the connection would be there; As feeble as it might be, it would be there for them as well. </p><p>But that is how Florion imagined it: the way he felt when all alone in the dream - that’s how the human felt all of the time. He shuddered at the thought.  </p><p>There were two possibilities. Either she was indeed some kind of spy. Or… </p><p>Conversations wouldn’t help. He was done conversing. He needed a touch. One touch and he would know the truth. Just one, and...</p><p> </p><p>...she arrived late today, and didn't expect the healer to be there at all, but the healer was.</p><p>The door stood ajar, and Aoife heard Carisme chastise someone out loud, “Have you tried not being stressed for, I don’t know, a coupla hours? Holy fuck,” she then let out a string of intricately woven swear words, followed by a faint crunch. “I’m not a miracle worker.”</p><p>The visitor groaned back an answer, muffled by the traditional folded tower he must have been hiding his face in, but it was enough for Aoife to stop dead in her tracks, just when she was about to cross the threshold of the doorway. She knew that voice. That voice <em> did things </em>to her.</p><p>Her body was supposed to make a sharp turn, and to carry her away, as far as it could manage with the heart racing so fast, but instead, it pushed her through the door and into the side room, and right into the line of view of Florion. He was just getting up from the marble slab, and popping a neck bone, and smiling a faintly guilty little smile. </p><p>“Yeah, you know what, I’m done,” Carisme told him, and then, barely looking, to Aoife: “Sorry, I’m off for today, kid. I think I sprained my wrist, just now.”</p><p>And the woman walked past her. And then Aoife was alone with him. And petrified. And <em> staring. </em>It was so hard not to stare. Beside everything she loved about him, and could gawk at for hours, his shoulders now were glistening with oil and reflecting light. </p><p>Pressing her arms to her chest, and to the sheet circling her, -<em> naked, I’m naked under this- </em>she managed to turn and take a step. Maybe it would be followed by another, by force of inertia alone? It wasn’t.  </p><p>He said, “Hold on.”</p><p>And he was near her in a single bound, or so it seemed, and she was breathing in his scent, and <em> by everything that is holy</em>, he was tall, and <em> did he block out the sun when going outside</em>? And then his fingers were soaring just above her shoulder, and she was <em> done for</em>. </p><p>“Look, I’m sorry… Are you in pain?”</p><p>She shook her head. Words, she needed words, <em> how do I do words! </em></p><p>“Was she supposed to apply something?”</p><p>
  <em> Just say no, you dimwit! </em>
</p><p>Aoife couldn’t force a single word out. </p><p>It took nearly all of her strength to recover from that one almost-touch, and to realise he was looking at her exposed back. And talking about <em> those</em>. And making a deduction about why she was here. He wasn’t trying to offend her or suggest she should get rid of the scars. And it was a good guess, judging by the amount of ointments Carisme had in her possession, and by her boasting about treating burns regularly. It’s just that it was a wrong one. Aoife feebly shook her head again. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want him to see. But didn’t back away, and so he seemed to have decided that yes, she was here to “apply something”; And to continue being helpful and polite. The guilt for apparently discouraging Carisme must have played a part.  </p><p>“Birch tar with castor oil?”</p><p>“No,” she managed. And then: “That thing stinks,” because her mind was frozen, and her tongue was pushing words out of its own volition, and because she had to say something, and also because yes, it did stink, and she hated that vile ointment. </p><p>She didn’t hate him. She didn’t hate <em> this</em>. </p><p>And she didn’t want to go. Because he was smiling again. </p><p>“It does, doesn’t it? There’s something better around here somewhere. Come sit.”</p><p>Her legs were supposed to carry her away and out of the room. Her voice was supposed to manage a “no, thank you, I’m good,” and she knew he would have accepted it and maybe even apologized for being presumptive, but instead she walked to the slab, and jumped, and sat on it, feeling it still radiate residual warmth from Florion, while he was rummaging among all of the jars on the shelf. He was <em> glistening</em>. And he only wore a towel. And that towel was hanging by a thread. </p><p>And she was going scarlet. And had to remember how to breathe. And then he was hovering by her, right next to her shoulder, and there was an open jar of cream in his hand, and it smelled of a forest floor; And he smelled like lavender, and thunder in the sky, and molten glass, and <em> Florion</em>. </p><p>He scooped some cream and leaned closer to her, and she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. And then his fingers touched her. </p><p>She gasped, and gasped again, and came undone.  </p><p> </p><p>...Just one. And now he knew, and now he craved a million. </p><p>She wanted him. Not in a way insistent strangers wanted Ouhri. It was something deep, pervasive, almost agonizing in its intensity. Something that forms when you’ve had a little taste and desperately wanted more. </p><p>She was glass, and under his hands, she was transforming. He felt her breathing, and her heartbeat through the skin, and they both were frantic; and witnessed, actually witnessed her skin change color when he touched her. Words can be twisted and manipulated; lies, easily formed. This — never. He withdrew his palm to scoop up more of the ointment and lingered, and heard her take a breath. </p><p>The scent of her hair, the warmth of her, it all felt so familiar. <em> It felt like home</em>. And he felt like kissing her. </p><p>He didn’t act upon the feeling. </p><p>He asked, “What is your name?” oiled fingers sliding down to the edge of the sheet encircling her. </p><p>She told him. It was a beautiful one, and he repeated it out loud, tasting it on his tongue.</p><p>And then he said, “They call me Florion.”</p><p>The very next instant, she breathed “I can’t,” and jumped down, nearly stumbling and, as a short-lived summer breeze, she was gone.  </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to run after her, he wanted <em> her</em>, but didn’t act upon it either.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Physical Threats, Slightly Unhinged Good Guy, Mutual Pining</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Glass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Breaking news! Everyone is microdosing! But that’s alright if we can have... uhm, communism?!<br/>*Green guy is being a sneak to find out if Immigrant girl wants to gobble up his... uhm, some pickled olives with him.<br/>*She does want to.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Our interpreter Coris took us to his home and served us dinner of stewed fungus and roasted slices of a root they call “vasca” which is purple in color and stains the tongue and lips, but tastes satisfactorily. Our interpreter Coris does not have a father present, which explains his name. He lives with two women who appear to be of the same age. One of them is his mother, the aforementioned Nesio. It is unclear who the second woman is, although he addresses her as mother as well. Mayhaps it is his widowed relative, or a former wet nurse, or a servant.” </em>
</p><p>If Florion was completely honest with himself, he’d say this week has been life-changing in more ways than one. </p><p>He went to the shop on Tanbark, and the man hired him without question. The proprietor was a pleasant one, not too old and not too sullen, and knew the craft well. His second, the man said, really wasn’t coming back anytime soon. </p><p>He spent another evening with fisherfolk, and actually started liking them, and learned their names. If he truly befriended them, they would have to deal with his complete absence from their lives for a month less each year than the casual company he’d kept in Iquinous. </p><p>While Florion was out and about the next day, he was delivered necessities. Not forgotten and accounted for, after all. He chose a room and, though he didn’t have to, tidied it up himself, and it was spacious, cozy, and facing the sea. Sure, it was lonely, but when he went down to the basement bathhouse and got the boiler running, and let the water flow, steaming away the desolation, and swam a few laps on his own, undisturbed, it didn’t feel that bad at all. Last he saw this place, it was filled with other dreamers and with their families, and with laughter that sounded just a tiny bit fake, underlined by the unmistakable, horrible desperation of another impending goodbye. His belongings, he found in the basement as well, stashed there from last fall, with lavender strewn over the shirts. He gathered some of the dried flowers in his palm and sniffed the grey-purple mass. It reminded him of home but there was no painful edge to those memories, not anymore. </p><p>In his mind, experimentally, he skimmed through what tied him to Iquinous now, and the list wasn’t long. His father’s shop was handled: his old man hired new apprentices years ago, when Florion was called to serve, and the lads were doing a good job running the manufactory to this day. Sure, they could always use an extra pair of hands but so did this town, as any other. His belongings - the ones that mattered and had a practical use - were mostly all here, save for some trinkets and relics from his childhood, some books he’d read a long time ago and more than once. Material possessions do not mean much, his father used to say. <em> Stuff you really need always travels with you.  </em></p><p>This was the first time he thought of staying.  </p><p>The air tasted cleaner and sweeter and the food was better. He liked those pickled olives something fierce. </p><p>How did he never know there was a gazebo on the roof? And benches, braziers, planters. How did he never lift his head to see it? He invited the fisherfolk over, the evening after next, and they brought food with them, and tales. Conversation was flowing, until one man asked with a short laugh, “So what have you brought us this time? Something good, I hope?” Florion gave a weak shake of the head and kept silent. The man asked no more questions on the matter, and conversation flowed again. In the end, they all got blind drunk together. Lideo and Heleine weren't among his visitors. He thought that maybe they’d already left for their trip. </p><p>And speaking of trips, Ouhri would come ashore here now, instead of bouncing between Iquinous and Beruza every month or so.  </p><p>Again, he thought of staying. </p><p>He went walking about the town, alone and with his new friends. He hasn't done this since he was a teenager. After he was called to serve Florion used to always stay in his room and sulk and then, well. Unlike Iquinous, Rheske was well cared for and nearly pristine. He could have lied to himself and said that it didn’t really matter. But it did, and the town still had the air of a rural paradise he remembered from childhood, and he liked it very much. </p><p>And then, suddenly, there was this. Her. The songstress. A strange puzzle that wouldn’t leave his mind anytime soon. </p><p>She seemed gentle and fragile, and… And they hurt her. They kept on hurting her for years. These things he’d heard weren’t a myth after all. The runaways in Iquinous weren’t simply messing with him when they told him things that robbed him of his sleep afterward. Humans really did hurt the weak for no discernible reason other than because they could, and they did it well. Those were markings made to last. </p><p>Looking at what they’ve done to her was almost unbearable. Pretending to be cheerful and dismissive, even more so. Perhaps she feared they’d do it again. She didn’t fear him. At least, not in the same way. </p><p>
  <em> Humans have this thing called shame, and it is a ferocious beast. </em>
</p><p>They were randomly placed, the scars. A single one here and there, and then, a bulging crisscross pattern, and a few in a row lower, hiding under the sheet she was wrapped in. Perhaps, all the way down, he thought, and scraped his teeth, empathetic to her pain.   </p><p>No one deserved this. </p><p>She kept bolting away from him, that seemed to be turning into her signature move. When she came to the shop, he noticed her almost right away but kept silent; Half out of his dedication to the craft and concentration, half out of curiosity. Maybe there was a pinch of pride in there too, because she was one of the people who wouldn’t watch him work to learn the craft or to criticize it, but for the sheer pleasure of witnessing the transformation. The thing he loved most. </p><p>Back then he thought she was just shy and, not knowing him or how he might react, didn’t mean to be a bother. Now, he knew better. And it wasn’t his work she was looking at. </p><p>And in the bathhouse, why did she run off? Did she somehow sense his intention? Because he desperately wanted to kiss her lips and then pull that sheet off, and kiss more of her, partly out of a self-indulgent urge to hear the sounds that she would make if he did. And partly, well, simply because he really, really wanted to. </p><p>Was it hubris to think she desired him? He supposed not. Over the years he’s developed a talent for detecting infatuated people in a snap and he was really good at it, the simple reason being: observing from the sidelines. He was generally observant, mostly as a quirk of his primary profession. But the experience of being Ouhri’s shadow every other Worship day helped, too. There were times when Florion would point out someone in the crowd to Ouhri and tell him “they're going to approach you until the end of the evening”, and sure enough, they did. His best friend somehow had that effect on women. And men. It was his impeccable politeness, his broad shoulders that promised protection, his charms, his dimpled smile that struck them a secret they yearned to solve. The jokes, the winks, the laughter. Ouhri the Playful. None of them knew that this was only half of Ouhri, then. That there was <em> the Broken </em> as well<em>. </em> None of them cared.  </p><p>And Ouhri seemed to enjoy, embrace and welcome the attention, too. He basked in it, like one would in rays of sunshine. Florion didn’t really know what to do with this kind of attention when he was the subject of it. He never fell strongly for any man or woman. He knew what most of them liked but never wanted anything to lead anywhere, because he’d given up on that long ago, and because it was a sensible thing, and he was a sensible man. And they realised it, and didn’t object. </p><p>This felt different somehow. He really didn’t know why he thought so. His father’s words and his own principles still stood, didn’t they? </p><p>He also didn’t know how he felt vigorous and awake enough after so few hours of sleep that he decidedly headed into the workshop on Worship day, way, <em> way </em> before dawn, and how exactly he managed to spend the morning hours starting the kilns on his own, making the molds, remaking them, and laboring with what felt like barely restrained obsession. </p><p>During the previous night he recalled a human he once met in Iquinous, telling him how their women were different. Firstly, he insisted with fervor, if you find yourself madly in love with a human woman, you mustn’t even think of confessing your love before she does, because it’s a completely unacceptable move that will make her lose interest. Odd thing, really, but it’s not like Florion needed this advice at the moment. The man said as well, that they aren’t open about their feelings or accepting of straight propositions, and that every single one of them needed a unique approach. <em> Courtship</em>, he called it. A foreign word that meant you had to put in some effort that usually involved flowers (this idea, Florion always liked) and a lot of careful, idle pleasantries spoken (this one didn’t sound appealing, because empty words are the worst). </p><p>Still, when he was done, and cleaned and packed the instruments, he felt fairly pleased with himself.</p><p>~*~</p><p>How does this even work and where is the logic in anything that happens this way?</p><p>One moment you’re unable to move at all, the next, you’re all movement, and you’re not so much as gone as you are <em> taken away</em>. And then there’s the third moment, one that stretches for hours: you, lying awake at night and thinking of a hundred ways something could have gone differently, and wondering if you had any say in it at all, or it was always destined to play out this way. With your legs taking control of your head and abruptly choosing to run with no discernible direction aside from <em> far away from here.  </em></p><p>What was he doing in the Temple bathhouse, she now thought, when there were a few other perfectly suitable ones that he’d probably been going to before? Was he following her? Was he suspecting something? Was that suspicion of a positive nature or did he, in his oblivion, imagine her a spy of some kind? </p><p>And what was it that caused her to run away, exactly? Because it was an extremely stupid move to make. </p><p>Was it the exchange of names that played out just as it did the first time, except for one little distinction, one that made her heart jump, and her eyes water? </p><p>Or was it the images in her mind's eye that pushed her away? </p><p>There was a heartbeat in there during which he lingered, and she was suddenly sure that if she turned her head and looked at him, he would kiss her, and there would be nothing to it. This scene played out in her head in great detail, in a span of that same heartbeat, probably. How his lips would taste, where exactly on her body his hand would dart to, how his other hand would not lose control and put the jar firmly on the slab. He remembered nothing, otherwise he would have told her. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been <em> this </em> Florion: cheerful, polite, easy-going, and still very much indifferent<em>. </em>Was it just her imagination? She didn’t know, but couldn’t shake the feeling that this is exactly how it would have played out if she’d allowed it to. It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right. </p><p>She thought, if that were true, maybe she should have allowed him. Then she’d realised that she couldn’t have, because her body wasn’t entirely her own at that moment; and it all went in circles again.</p><p>When Lensi caught up with her, she was halfway to the Temple. He didn’t ride his contraption today, and for a moment she thought he wanted a walking company but he simply gave her the package and sprinted away. </p><p>Suspecting another batch of candied ginger, she rolled her eyes. She really didn’t care for the stuff. Still, maybe Caileen did, so Aoife unfolded the paper while waiting for her teacher in the side room next to the harpsichord. </p><p>Her breath caught. </p><p>There was a simple paper box inside and in it, upon a disorderly mass of unprocessed cotton, lay a work of art. A cluster of sword lilies, interconnected and flowing into each other, and gentle pink in color. As nearly every work of art produced by the aldamaari, it had a practical application: the flowers were but an adornment of a long hairpin. </p><p>It was all made of glass, including the base. She stared at it for a whole minute and spent the next carefully tracing the edges. Her shoulder-length hair was already tied in a meager bun, and she wanted to put the pin into it, anticipating how pretty it would look, but… <em> It was made of glass</em>. One slip, one careless move, and it would fall and break into a thousand pieces. Flowers don’t last long, but their fate is not up to you, they inevitably wither and die. Glass flowers, well... She didn’t trust herself with them. </p><p>Under the cotton she found a note, and it said “Next time, please don’t run away.” And nothing else. Unless it was someone’s idea of a joke - a cruel one - she knew the sender. </p><p>Lily was her mother’s name, but he couldn’t have known that. </p><p>She also remembered the meaning of sword lilies, albeit only among humans. </p><p>
  <em> You have pierced my heart.  </em>
</p><p>It was, of course, a coincidence, and yet tears swelled in the corners of her eyes, and her heart fluttered.  </p><p>Aoife put the pin back into the box, and wrapped it in her cloak, and put the cloak on the chair, moving instead to sit at the instrument. When she was concentrating on the lesson after, the minutes seemed to drag, but as soon as her gaze darted to the cloak, and the gift it was hiding underneath, minutes were flying.  </p><p>She sat in the last row this time, undisturbed, as all her friends were serving today, including Mahri. And only then, with the noise of conversations buzzing around, among people congregating in front of her, she sunk her shoulders down and allowed herself to open the box again. She took the hairpin out, and circled it in her palms, and stared down at it, transfixed, and kept staring, and noticed neither the choir, nor the shuffle of hundreds of feet standing up, nor the singing; Nothing, until a hand reached down as if from nowhere, and scooped the glass flowers. She jerked her head up, very nearly ready to <em> fight </em> to get them back. </p><p>It was <em> him</em>. His scent, his smile, his eyes. His hand. </p><p>It all happened in a heartbeat. </p><p>Was he ever this quiet in his movements, so furtive and stealthy, or was it her now, so spellbound and oblivious to the world around her, and clinging instead to the idea that these flowers represented, that she didn’t notice him take an empty seat next to her? </p><p>He didn’t say a thing. He lay a hand on her shoulder and pushed it gently, her back to him, and stuck the pin into her hair. His forefinger traced down her neck with the tenderest of touches, and she found herself trembling involuntarily. </p><p>“Aoife,” he called, and she turned to face him. </p><p>Her breathing was shallow again. </p><p>Her name on his lips sounded almost like a question, but what exactly was he asking?</p><p>There was nowhere to run, and she didn’t want to. There was nothing to say because the words kept eluding her. How does one speak of such a thing? How does one explain, and keep a promise like the one she gave him in the dream? His fingers were on her wrist again and closed around it, and his touch sent shivers down her spine. Suddenly, like thunder from the sky, she realised the way. </p><p>She turned her wrist in his careful grasp as one would a key inside a lock and pointed to it with a weak nod, and let him see and, by the look of astonishment on his face, knew that he understood. The red pulsing vein under her skin, punctuated by tiny scars, each of them perfectly round and white as snow. Elanthie. Elanthie when it doesn’t want to let go, when you have to <em> break free</em>. </p><p>“Don’t you remember?” She also knew that hope was pleading, desperate in her breaking voice as he brought her wrist closer, to see, to feel, to press his lips to it. </p><p>The aldamaari were always casually physical with one another. They embraced and kissed, and pecked, and smooched, and pinched, and held hands, and touched foreheads unreservedly, all of the time. It was their way of saying hello, or goodbye, or that they care about you, or agree with you, or respectfully disagree, or <em>anything</em> <em>and everything</em> and, sometimes, nothing at all.  </p><p>But she knew the third thing too then: the touch of his lips just now was both an answer and an unspoken apology, because he didn’t. He didn’t remember.  </p><p>Not letting go of her arm, he said, “I heard you came to visit me.” And he had to lean in closer for her to hear. She could smell the tart scent of lamia on his warm breath. </p><p>There was something else there though; not in his words, but in his gaze, and the smile that’d stretched his lips but for a moment. She might have imagined it, but it was almost as if he now knew a little bit more about her than he did before, and not just of her visits. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>If he asked why, that would have been the end of her. </p><p>He didn’t. He said, “Thank you,” and ran a finger down the underside of her palm. She shuddered. She wanted these fingers on her, inside her. Now, <em> now</em>, always. </p><p>There was singing going strong around them; the not-exactly-harmonious, amicable kind that she’d always found charming, no matter how many times she’d attended the service. It felt like disorderly noise now. Out of all the places and times to talk this might have been the worst one, even if speaking would have been any easier for her. </p><p>He asked, “Won’t you sing?”</p><p>And this question had a second lining too. </p><p>“I will, later,” she told him, and it was a personal promise. </p><p>He didn’t remember, but he certainly <em> knew</em>, it would be stupid to deny it now. If not that there was something missing but at least that she craved him. And if by some miracle he didn’t know yesterday, he certainly did now, by the frantic pulse in her wrist, by the blood rushing to her face, by the lack of objection to his touch, or of appropriate questions and pleasantries (“I thank you for your gift”, “I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly”, “Why are you sitting here with me?” “Why did you give me this?”). He knew, and Aoife didn’t mind that. It was easier than words. From the beginning, he seemed the kind to know, to sense things; sometimes even before she knew them. </p><p>It was hard to look up into his face and it was impossible not to look. Everything about him seemed so familiar and yet new. His somewhat boyish features, so vivid now, when she was so used to them unmoving, frozen and smooth. His hand, warm on her wrist. And she was slowly getting used to looking at the living man instead of a statue. </p><p>They sat like this, silent among the noise, amidst another song that praised unity, and in a moment's daring she brought her fingers to his face and watched him lean into the touch, eyelashes lowered, lips parted. This wasn't <em> casually physical</em>, she thought. This was him the way he returned her affection the very first time she'd invaded his realm. This was him wanting her in return, even without the aid of his memories. Was it hubris to think so? He held her fingers to his face, leaned down and whispered against her mouth, “Spend the evening with me?”</p><p>It wasn’t a kiss but it had the power of one, or ten. The feeling was slowly melting her joints. </p><p>This was the Worship day, but she still didn’t know what he was asking. To stay by his side while the ruckus was going on around them or to make love to him? She searched his face for an answer, stroking his cheek, and then searched some more, and the silence lingered between them until he moved slightly back and inquired, “What troubles you?” </p><p>“My shame,” she breathed out, this time with no hesitation. </p><p>A beast with a hundred sharp claws and thirty gaping maws, and teeth the size of her head. </p><p>Whatever Florion was asking for, she wanted both but couldn’t give him either. The latter, yes, because of shame’s grip on her. The former, well… The service was over, all at once. And she heard one of the Temple sisters call for her. Beside her name and a plea to hurry up, there was something in there about a griddle. She let out a long sigh. </p><p>He understood at once. “You’re serving tonight,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. </p><p>“I am,” she managed. </p><p>His friends were fast approaching: happy, rowdy, big, strong and dressed in a patchwork of bright colors; and so were hers, from the other side, no-nonsense, businesslike and tense, their identical dark robes rustling over their identical dark trousers.  </p><p>“Well. There is still the night,” he whispered, and let her go. Aoife closed her eyes and felt lips brush lightly against her cheek and then, herself falling down a bottomless chasm. </p><p>She came to in a bit, with Mahri in the seat to her left, tugging at her sleeve and smiling ear to ear like a cute, happy cub that she was. </p><p>Aoife told her, “What?” While knowing exactly, what.  </p><p>“Oh, nothing,” and it wasn’t nothing. “Let’s go. Lots of hungry mouths - and I do not mean yours this time,” she chirped. “And not enough hands, and I do not mean h...”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Aoife said dismissively and shook her off with a smile.</p><p><em> An easy target, </em> in more ways than one<em>.  </em></p><p>When she stood up and turned, Mahri gasped. “Did <em> he </em>give you that?”</p><p>She nodded. The hairpin didn’t move. It seemed to be doing its job splendidly. </p><p>Mahri looked at her, wide-eyed and confused. “Really?” </p><p>Aoife looked back at her, now confused as well. </p><p>“Well, yes. It’s a gift,” she suggested vaguely. </p><p>They walked, quite briskly, which was almost painful for Aoife’s wobbly legs at the moment, and gaining quickly on the others. </p><p>Mahri was nearly squealing, “But there aren’t <em> just </em> gifts. They’re always...”</p><p>“...promises,” Maeve finished sharply from behind them, and her tone and facial expression were also very much confused and, maybe, just a little stern. This was weird. </p><p>Aoife held Mahri back, and let Maeve pass, and whispered, “Are you saying you don’t just give gifts?”</p><p>“Of course we do, silly. But they’re never <em> just gifts.” </em></p><p>“Well, then, what did your gift mean?” she asked, remembering the candied ginger that still lay in her iced pantry, almost untouched.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t kno-o-ow,” crooned Mahri playfully, blinked her eyelashes a few times in rapid succession, leaned down to her neck as if to kiss it, and then blew a gloriously loud raspberry against it. “Maybe that I care for you and always will, and that you are my friend.”  </p><p>When she was done laughing, Aoife said, “As you are mine. So, food you give to a friend.” Mahri nodded. “Alright. What did <em> his </em> gift mean, then?”</p><p>They went on walking. </p><p>“That you’re not exactly his friend.”</p><p>“What, that he dislikes me?”</p><p>Mahri scoffed. “No, that he’s going to fuck the living breath out of you, repeatedly.”</p><p>Aoife stopped dead in her tracks, before once again continuing walking. Yes, well, as it turns out, there was a meaning after all. And It wasn’t <em> you have pierced my heart</em>. </p><p>There was still something not exactly right with it. “But… He could just ask, because you do that, no? And you do that on this day? You approach someone, and you...” She trailed off, shame taking over once again. </p><p>Mahri straightened her shoulders, and twitched her eyebrows, and pointed a finger at the back of Aoife’s head. “<em>That </em> wasn’t a question. That was, as you just heard, a <em> promise</em>.” </p><p>The square was in sight, bathed in light and music. Mahri was striding, and it was hard to keep up. Aoife hesitated for a moment. </p><p>“So… How do I… What do I give him in return?”</p><p>“Yourself for yes or, I suppose, his gift back, for a resounding <em>sod off and</em> <em>stick it where the sun doesn't shine</em>?” Mahri looked as if she had to explain from which direction does the aforementioned sun rise every morning.</p><p>“Myself for yes,” she mused aloud. “Just like that? And yet you keep repeating, <em> don’t rush</em>.”</p><p>Shrugging, Mahri said, “Yes, well, you don’t rush. Things. But if you ever get a chance to get close to someone, why wait. There is nothing more important than being together, in every way you can manage to scrape up.”</p><p>It was surprisingly profound and wise by Mahri’s standards, and Aoife mused on it some more. </p><p>And then Mahri broke the spell, adding with a concerned look, “Please don’t burst.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Florion closed the door behind him with, perhaps, a bit too much force, and ignored the calm invitation to sit. He didn’t quite understand how he managed to maintain equanimity at the sight of those tiny scars and not to tell Aoife what she was, right then in the Great hall. How many other things had he been blind to lately?</p><p>In the privacy of her office Drifeo, fresh from the sermon, eyed him and his poorly concealed agitation intently for a few moments. Remembering himself, he bowed. </p><p>Finally, she said, “It’s about the human girl, isn’t it? Before you ask 一 yes, she is.” </p><p>How was that even possible? And how many revelations had he forgotten, exactly? </p><p>He tapped at the inside of his wrist. “How long have you known, my lady?”</p><p>“Decades,” the High Priestess said. </p><p>Florion squinted at her. “But she only came here two years ag...”</p><p>“Decades,” Drifeo interrupted firmly. And then she told him how it all unfolded, starting from the day he was supposed to emerge this year but didn’t. How the girl seemingly took pity on him, in his solitude, how she asked for permission to go and visit him, and did, and brought snowdrops (“I think I shed a little tear there”), how those visits were becoming a regular thing, and how the caretakers were watching her, and when Drifeo started to suspect that there was something else at play “other that your looks, dear”, and so on. </p><p>She spoke for a while. When the High Priestess was done, Florion, still pressing his palm to his shirt right above the spot where the snowdrop was, asked, “And she doesn’t really know, does she?”</p><p>A dreamer that is human. His <em> seven </em>were still there but then, so was this. </p><p>Everything he’d learned about the matter throughout his life was falling apart, and the din of it was deafening. </p><p>“No, I don’t think she does. She might come to realise it soon, though. She’s been hurt, and belittled, and doesn’t think much of herself, but she’s not stupid, I don’t think. And I did give her a hint or two. Once, when your friend was talking to me about you, and she stood near, and once, well…” She gestured vaguely toward a pretty lacquered flute displayed in one of the glass cases in her study. “Once when I proposed she learned another instrument, which she is now doing.” </p><p>“Do the caretakers know?”</p><p>“No, they do not,” Drifeo said, and pursed her lips. </p><p>“Do humans?”</p><p>“Not a single thing. She doesn’t write to them, she doesn’t keep in contact. And if they mean her harm, I will not give her back to them, if I can help it.”</p><p>“What about their letters and the replies that the caretakers compose in her stead? You know about them, right? They falsify her handwriting, and everything.” </p><p>“I am the one composing them, not the caretakers. Yes, well. They’re there. Obviously humans want to know what’s happening, and in their position, who wouldn’t?”</p><p>“I did not know you spoke the humans’ language,” said Florion, frowning. She ignored this. After a pause, he asked, “So, you are intending to tell her, sooner or later? And test her, and call her to serve?”</p><p>Drifeo shook her head. </p><p>“Test, yes. When he allows it. But, what you do, or what Coris, or Lideo does… It is important, and irreplaceable, and special. What she can do, many others can. And our continued survival doesn’t depend on us learning new music. We have gone without a song stealer for a few years. Kenn didn’t seem to mind.”</p><p>Kenn never seemed to mind anything much except for his weird obsession. </p><p>“I see,” he said. “So she was with me. There, under. And I do not remember a single thing. What a pity.”</p><p>Drifeo nodded, “It is. But maybe you will, later?”</p><p>“Maybe I will,” he mused. “May I ask what you <em> are </em> going to do, then?”</p><p>“Assess the candidates, and choose one in about a year, I suppose. And then call that one to serve.”</p><p>He opened his mouth to speak. Drifeo lifted her palm. “<em> And </em> if it’s her, then <em> yes, </em>I might attempt to use it as a diplomatic implement. Do not get your hopes up too high, though.”</p><p>“Why not? Isn’t this a wondrous thing?” he asked, his eyes wide. </p><p>“It might be. It also might be a reason for them to call her a heretic, and to steal her away, and to hang her by the neck until it snaps. That is, if they don’t torture her beforehand.”</p><p>Florion took a step back. </p><p>“No!” he breathed. He felt bile rising to his throat. </p><p>“Such are humans. We cannot claim to understand their ways.” </p><p>He grinded his teeth. “My lady, whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to understand it.”</p><p>She nodded, and sank back into her chair, and was silent for a while. For a moment she seemed ancient, and so very tired. </p><p>“It’s Worship day, my darling one. Go and be merry.”</p><p><em> And do not rush, </em>he thought. </p><p>“And do not rush,” Drifeo added. “Between me, and you, and my girls, I think we can protect one human, no?”</p><p>“We <em> will</em>,” he said and bowed again, and strode away. His new friends still stood waiting for him outside. It <em> was </em> Worship day. He had his mind set on the way and object of his worship. </p><p>It wasn't right, it wasn't in his habit, and you don't do that, because why would you? And yet, standing just outside the circle of the nearest street lamp, he hid and watched her work, flipping the crumpets and piling them up on a large dish, her face flushed with the heat of the griddles. The latter sizzled, adding to the noise, and people went unhurriedly about, and she blew a stray lock of hair up and away from her face but it fell back almost at once. He wanted to come over and tuck it behind her ear. Her hair was like autumn come alive. Her green eyes were like the last vestiges of summer among in. </p><p>He wanted that and many other things. He wanted to understand, he wanted to remember the missing pieces. </p><p><em> My shame</em>, she’d said. </p><p>He did not move a muscle. </p><p><em> Humans have this thing called shame. It’s not what we call shame. It’s not the guilt of having caused pain to someone and wanting to amend it. It is this pain, tripled, when you are both the inflicter and the victim. Both the claw and the skin. And they feel it, sharply, all the time. It is absurd, and horrible, and all-encompassing. </em> 一 <em> But, dad, how do they live with it? </em> 一 <em> They inflict pain on others to get rid of it, or they just keep it in, and let it consume them.  </em></p><p>Is there no other way? </p><p>He pressed his palm, again, onto the spot where the snowdrop remained. His abdomen tensed. Maybe, just maybe, his dreaming self knew infinitely more than his awake self. It’s not that they were strangers; they were acquainted, but vaguely, just like sober Florion and blind drunk Florion. Like day and night, meeting in the middle, where edges were hazy and light flowed distorted, but still parts of the same cycle. </p><p>The look of concentration on her face was replaced with a coy smile for a moment. Someone, right after receiving a stack of crumpets from her, just complimented her on the hairpin, and blew a kiss into the air. But then she remembered, and the smile faded, and she wiped her palms on a strip of cloth and took the hairpin out, and put it in the box it came in. She was very gentle with it. </p><p>There was no need. This would not break if dropped. His promises were made to last.  </p><p>He felt hollow. He felt full to the brim. He felt like weeping. He felt like a happy fool.  </p><p>He did not move a muscle. </p><p>Finally, she was done, and one of the girls passed her a plate. There were olives on it, and some greens, and a piece of roasted vasca root, and a misshapen blob of pottage, and she dropped one of the last crumpets on top of it all, and went to sit and eat. She didn’t though, not really. She picked at it with her fork, and her expression was dreamy, and somehow pained at the same time. </p><p>He hoped he was that dream. He hoped he wasn’t that pain. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: UST, Mentions of Extensive Scarring</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Shame</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Green guy learns a plot hook and puts a minimum amount of effort into wooing Immigrant girl.<br/>*Gratuitous UST, passing through, already on its way out.<br/>*BFF very patient with precious, stupid, naive cinnamon rolls.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “From what I have seen they do not own and sell slaves, at least not in this region. It is, as of yet, unclear to me who their king is and where his dwelling is situated.” </em>
</p><p>He was both. When one’s hands are busy, and when one has to watch what they’re doing, it’s much easier to push unnecessary thoughts away. </p><p>It wasn’t easy now; in fact, not thinking about him seemed impossible.  </p><p>She wondered, <em> Is this what it’s going to be like now? </em>Replaying each touch and each glance in her head, analyzing his every word, until thoughts would go in circles again. If it was, sooner or later she’d drive herself insane. </p><p>There was a passage in one of those romantic novels older weavers loved so much. She remembered a fragment because they’ve reread it thrice: “And have you ever felt this way about someone? When a mere thought of their gaze makes you weak at the knees, when seeing but a glimpse of their face sends your heart racing? And their voice is so dear to you, you could listen to them talk for hours? Their touch, oh, it alone makes you melt as snow in spring. You awaken and go to sleep with them on your mind. And when they’re not there, you cannot breathe.” Or something of that sort. She scoffed at it when she’d heard it, despite how those surrounding her were clearly relating to the words so much. It all seemed so banal, so <em> idiotic</em>; it would have been foolish to believe this might be real. And even more foolish to think that this might last. That was a sober thought back then, and she remembered thinking it clearly.  </p><p>And now she disagreed with herself, and related to those silly words in a way she’d never thought possible, although she would probably never admit to it aloud as long as she was living. And argued with herself, and then argued some more, and just a smidge more. </p><p>
  <em> Is this what they call being enamoured? Surely it cannot be. It’s suffocative, stifling.  </em>
</p><p>She wanted to feel this and to never stop feeling this. </p><p>
  <em> Painful, exhausting, unhealthy.  </em>
</p><p>She craved him, it was agonizing, she wanted more.   </p><p>And then she noticed him, not exactly hiding but still, concealed by the encroaching darkness. </p><p>With what felt like a punch to the chest, Aoife recognized the outline of his body first, that unmistakable lithe but powerful form. He stood there, stiff as a board, observing her. He noticed that she noticed him. There probably wasn’t a lot in the world that could have hidden from his observational skills. </p><p>And then: his eyes, reflecting light but for a moment. They were pools of molten gold, staring right at her, almost unblinking. His frowning features, thoughtful. She wondered if she was the reason for the latter. Or if it was the lack of light that distorted them and made her see what wasn’t truly there. </p><p>For a second she wondered foolishly if her thoughts alone had produced him out of the thinning crowd, and out of the removed sounds of a band playing, of shouts, cheers, and the ever-present buzz of voices; the shadow at a precipice.</p><p>She wanted him to stay away. She wanted to run to him. She wanted him to come over and sit by her side. She wanted him to grab her, drag her into the night, and一 </p><p>Aoife closed her own eyes. </p><p>For a moment she felt disconnected from reality. For a moment, absurdly, she felt herself being the loneliest creature in the universe, awake when everyone else is asleep, prowling in an unending night. For a moment, she felt as if this exact moment had already happened. For a moment, she felt as if <em> everything, everything </em> was ever going in circles, not just her restless thoughts.  </p><p>
  <em> If it is all truly inevitable, Florion’ll be sitting on the bench next to me when I open my eyes.  </em>
</p><p>She opened them. He was sitting next to her. </p><p>He called, “Aoife”, and it, too, has already happened a thousand times, somewhere, somehow. Or did it? She rubbed her temple. Florion wasn’t frowning anymore. He said, “Would you look who’s back!” And didn’t mean himself. He nodded, chuckling lightly, at the line of lilac geese, crossing the edge of the square in a long, slow, parade-like procession, lamp light playing magnificently on their smooth, iridescent feathers. The birds were turning their crowned heads this way and that, accessing their surroundings with quiet and dignified indifference. </p><p>It was well and truly spring now. </p><p>And Florion’s done it again. He created a distraction, a trap for her circling thoughts; granted, with a little help from the birds’ timely arrival. But it was so recognizably <em> him. </em> </p><p>No, untrue, untrue and biased. In more or less every single aldamaari she’d come to know, it was a trait she saw and recognized, outside of or, maybe, in conjunction with their universal <em> empathy, </em>as they called it. They were all extremely uncomfortable with doubt and with personal turmoil, and always chose to redirect the attention of the one in pain, and to distract him. They thought pain destructive and unnecessary. Their whole funeral practices were based around the fact, among other things. It was a reflex more than it was a trait, really. </p><p>It’s just that <em> he </em> was the first she’d met to aim the practice at her on more than one occasion. Humans might have considered it a weakness, they would instead think it an honor, to face pain and conflict head on, to chew on it, to rotate their world around it, to bottle their feelings, and let these feelings burn them from the inside, and some would even see pain and conflict as poetic. To be unhappy meant to be brave, and heroic, and to interfere with somebody’s unhappiness when they didn’t ask for it would be intrinsic to airheads, and the pitiful, and the weak. </p><p>A bunch of rubbish. She knew it was. At least, a part of her did. The other part was very loud, though. Maybe the other part actually <em> wanted </em>to suffer, and to feel pain, and to doubt. Was it inevitable, was it something that may be called human nature? Or was it possible to rid yourself of it, if you knew how?</p><p>Revelers sidestepped to give the geese way. There was a merry shriek in the crowd when one goose broke the procession to jump up a table, heavy wings flapping lazily, and snatch a piece of flatbread from someone’s plate. He gobbled it up and rejoined his slowly marching brethren as if nothing had happened. In fact, he looked a bit more smug now. </p><p>“I wish I had a shrivel of that self-confidence,” she mused out loud, voice a little broken.</p><p>Aoife looked down, very nearly crushed by her own daring, and thought of how much she loved Florion’s hands. Especially his fingers, so long, so elegant and slender, and yet so strong. They seemed, truly, to represent the man himself, at least, in the way she’d perceived him. Calm, and gentle, and kind, and dignified in his manners, and yet, with horrible power sleeping within. </p><p>He said, “It’s there. It really is.”</p><p>She looked into his eyes and at the faint smile now stretching his lips. She did not understand why, and it was extremely stupid, absurd, impractical to think or to even feel it, because she did not know this man, not really, but still she thought she would boil away seas and upend mountains for that smile. She would kill and die for it. And maybe, somehow, somewhere, she already did, and will again. She thought, <em> Am I confusing dreams with reality? </em>And then thought of it no more. </p><p>“How do you do it? How do you never doubt?” she asked, and meant his people, and not him alone. He smiled again, and shook his head, and didn’t answer. He produced a lamia leaf from his pocket, put it in his mouth and rolled it almost noiselessly on his tongue. </p><p>It felt as if they were continuing a conversation interrupted long ago, and the fact that he didn’t remember her from his dream didn’t really matter at this moment. </p><p>“I do doubt,” he finally said, moving closer to her. “Sometimes. And then I doubt no more.”</p><p>“But how?” </p><p>“Because it’s counterproductive to doubt.” </p><p>There was a pause. And in this pause, eternity happened. She looked up into his face again, and he reached for her hand, and hooked his forefinger to hers, and maybe she only thought she died, or actually died, but just a little, and then was alive again. <em> Yes, this is what it’s going to be like from now on. </em> </p><p>“So. The shame,” he said. </p><p>“The shame,” she echoed. </p><p>“What is it like?”</p><p>Aoife laughed, almost despite herself and despite the fact that this wasn’t a joke, not even remotely. He was following that laughter, eyes transfixed on her lips, unblinking, neck repeating her movements as if he was a reflection in a mirror. </p><p>She considered for a moment. Or two. Or ten. There’d been a threshold she was fortunate to cross quite fast when learning to speak the language of the aldamaari; it was an invisible ledge beyond which she no longer needed to form words in her head before speaking them out loud.  She crossed it even before she was done boning up on the entire thesaurus. The skill seemed to be letting her down now. She wanted to get this right. It seemed important to get this right. </p><p>He knew quite a lot about humans, their superstitions and their prejudices. He didn’t know that she knew that he knew. But she skipped all of it anyway. Too many words required, already. This was going to be hard. But she was stubborn, so she’d manage. </p><p>“A part of you that's always criticizing your every action. A little nasty discrete voice. Sometimes it feels like it's your own, sometimes, somebody else's. But it hates you so much.”</p><p>Aoife paused. Florion didn’t say a word, quietly waiting for her to continue. And so she did. </p><p>“And it won’t let you do the things you want to do. Or say what you want to say. If you defy it, it torments you even more. Sometimes you feel like arguing with it, as if it truly were a separate entity, but the arguments always lead nowhere. You ask it, what is your problem with me, and it always says, or implies, you are my problem with me.” </p><p>“I do not know where it comes from. Maybe you are born with it or, maybe, it’s not really you, after all. It’s the humiliation you suffer throughout your life that gives this voice… well, voice. And power. Such is shame.”</p><p>He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. <em> Is this what it feels like when a thunderbolt is going through your body? </em> Florion asked, “Is it silent right now?”</p><p>She answered truthfully, “No. It is screaming.”</p><p>He turned her wrist, and kissed it, too. “What is it telling you to do?”</p><p>“Run.”</p><p>
  <em> It’s wrong, you are a sinner, your desires are filth.  </em>
</p><p>“And will you listen?”</p><p>Again, truthfully, she answered, “Not this time. I am done listening to <em> humans</em>.” </p><p>He chuckled, moved closer to her, took half an olive from her plate and put it to her lips. She opened them. Her tongue brushed his thumb. He brought it to his mouth and licked it.</p><p><em> Tell him to stop touching you. Who does he think he is. He doesn’t know you. </em>Shut up, shut up, shut up. </p><p>“Good girl,” he said in that low, hungry voice of his that she remembered from dreams. Aoife searched for gods to swear by but found none. “I know the voice you speak of, and I am friends and confidantes with mine. Always have been.”</p><p>She swallowed quickly. </p><p>“Does it never mock you, belittle you?”</p><p>“Maybe good-naturedly. Like friends do. But that’s what friends are for, are they not? They keep you loved, and held, and, sometimes, on your toes. Maybe you could also become friends with yours?”</p><p>She considered.</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t remember you, which means he just wants you for the novelty of it. You are a nasty, filthy whore, and even if he wants you now, he will discard you later.   </em>
</p><p>“What do I do if I know I can’t ever be friends with it? Not even be on decent terms with it?”</p><p>“Well then, it is your enemy and wishes you harm. In this case, I guess, you have no choice but to kill it.” </p><p>Even a metaphorical allusion to the possibility of likewise metaphorical lethal violence seemed unusual and bizarre, coming from an aldamaari. Coming from him, and for the second time in her memory, even more bizarre. Maybe even a little troubling. </p><p>“How do you do that?”</p><p>“Slowly.”</p><p>Huh. </p><p>He tilted his head to the side, studying her expression. </p><p>“It will take time,” she said. And meant, really, <em> I will need time.  </em></p><p>He nodded. “I know.” And meant, really, just that. </p><p>He moved slightly away on the bench. It felt to her as a gesture of respect, as if he was giving her space, in every meaning of the word. </p><p><em> “There’s still the night,” </em> she remembered him saying against her lips mere hours ago. Now she was thankful, and aching, and angry at herself, and touched, and <em> move close to me again, please.  </em></p><p>It was getting late. Crowds were dispersing. She’d spent the evening working, and it was, probably, the first time in two years that she was seeing it as time wasted. The girls were packing, and cleaning. She <em> had </em> to join them. He <em> saw </em> that she did. </p><p>When he next spoke, Florion didn’t add to the previous thought. No more talk of killing. Instead, he asked, “Have you been just outside the town borders?”</p><p>“In the Valley?”</p><p>“Other side. Closer. Along the shore to the south.”</p><p>Summer before last, when she was still new and fresh and scared and barely speaking the language, Temple sisters took her to a secluded beach just outside of Rheske, although it was northside, not south; they spent a few hours there, <em> baking </em>in the sun, eating fruit they brought with them, splashing merrily, and collecting seashells. At the end of that day most of the girls were happy, exhausted and the color of pickled olives. Aoife was five different shades of red, and aching all over. She spent the next night feverish and crying from the pain, and got up covered in scabs, and fainted trying to crawl out the door. A courier found her, and screamed until she came to, and that’s how she learned a couple of swear words in the language of the aldamaari. They covered her in yogurt afterwards, as if she was a marinating roast, and kept her in bed for a day. Putting on clothes was an agonizing process for another few. She’d avoided the beaches ever since. The sun was her enemy. </p><p>But it wasn’t summer yet. </p><p>She shook her head. “No.”</p><p>“Come with me. Tomorrow morning.”</p><p>There was a part of her that would go anywhere with him, for any reason at all. Sadly, it wasn’t the dominant part. Sadly, the other one was still very much alive. </p><p>“Come with you?” she repeated, looking for an elaboration. </p><p>He tittered, and then said, “Yes.”</p><p>There would be none. </p><p>In her head, she went through the questions she might ask. Where would we go? Would there be other people, or just the two of us? Will it take a lot of time? What is the purpose of this? What is your plan? Why? </p><p>She concentrated, and <em> strangled </em> each and every one of them. It didn’t matter. It was him. And if there was a slightest chance that there would be no distractions this time, the possibility that she wished for desperately, and dreaded at the same time, well then一</p><p>Out loud, she said, “Alright.”</p><p>“I’ll meet you at the fishing docks at eight.”</p><p>Someone was calling her and, yet again, there was urgency in the summons. She thought perhaps it was Maeve, but wasn’t sure, because she couldn’t look away from his eyes. For the last time this evening, he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. And then, <em> just for a change of pace</em>, she thought, he was gone. </p><p><em> What are the dreamers dreaming for? </em> Aoife mused, distractedly, face in her pillow, for what must have been a hundredth time. They go inside their mountain, and they plunge into their pools, and they close their eyes, and for months they’re lost to this world, but dwell in a different one instead, one that has its separate but distinct rules, unlike normal dreams, the latter being bound only by imagination, if anything at all. And then, when they wake up, there’re sophisticated markings on their skin, and sprouted seeds floating around them. The stone baths all look identical: same width, same length, same seemingly bottomless depth under them. Is the elanthie a living being, and not a plant? How does it know to cling to each one of them in more or less the same spots, every single time? Or is it <em> really </em> magic? What is the source of it? Is it a god, or gods? Who <em> are </em> the gods that Florion swears by, what are their names, and why aren’t they mentioned by names in sermons and prayers? </p><p><em> What are the dreamers dreaming for? </em>In the elusive moment between wakefulness and slumber she realised, or remembered, the answer, and it was simple, and brilliant, and horrifying, and true, but she forgot it all come morning. </p><p>She rose before dawn. It was a miracle, really, that she did get any sleep at all, what with both her mind and heart racing like spooked bunnies. Her first thought was, “This is really happening to me.” Her second, “What exactly?” </p><p>By quarter to eight she was already near the docks, and the area, as usual, was bustling with life. She thought that maybe she should not go down, and hide, and wait for him to arrive first, because this was the etiquette she was taught, but she strangled that thought, too. </p><p>He was already there, after all. Standing away from the wharf and the hustle, and staring at the water. Aoife stopped in her tracks to look at him, uninterrupted, and not smothered by shame. The sight of him took her breath away, even in this meager light. She really didn’t know why she thought him beautiful, but she did, from the very beginning. To most humans, probably, his appearance would seem freakish, bizarre, if not outright heinous. She knew that; in her head, she could hear them judge the color of his skin and his towering height as unnatural; his long hair and his boyish, gentle features, as effeminate, “unmanly”. But to her, he was the loveliest creature to ever walk the world. </p><p>Florion seemed lost in thought; tranquil, motionless. Unlike yesterday, his hair was down, and slightly disheveled, and blowing softly in the wind. Maybe he also couldn’t sleep. She wondered where he was staying. She thought of how he would be leaving in two weeks, not to return until fall. This thought, she failed to kill. </p><p>And took a step, and then another. </p><p>He noticed her approach, and outstretched his hand to her when she was still feet away, and then she was there, and took it. </p><p>He didn’t say, “Good morning” out loud. His face and smile were speaking volumes, though. She thought, “Is this a dream? Am I still dreaming?” and then he touched her chin lightly with the fingers of his other hand, and her whole body responded to the touch, and leaned forward. </p><p>“We’re going to the lighthouse,” he announced and nodded to the south. An odd statement, because the lighthouse was north of the town, on the other side of the bay, at the end of a long, narrow patch of rock, and it was the only one, and visible from here. “What remains of it.”</p><p>And then she remembered. It was the night they’ve talked at length and mostly of the places they grew up in, but he did tell her quite a lot about Rheske from decades ago, from when he was a child and visited with his adoptive father, Darius.  </p><p>“Florion,” she called and looked up into his eyes. “Do you remember anything about me? Anything at all?”</p><p>He closed his eyes for a moment. His expression was pained. Just like that time in the dream when he’d warned he might forget. Finally, he said, “No. I don’t remember. But I <em> know </em> that I am drawn to you. And I <em> know </em> that I want to get closer to you. It feels like an instinct. Does it count as a memory?”</p><p>She said, “Maybe it does,” and smiled despite herself, and he smiled back.    </p><p>“Come on,” he said, and dragged her by the hand, to the staircase leading up from the fishing docks. She struggled to keep up, and he noticed. She was so small next to him, and felt so clumsy. He could carry her. And he was, probably, thinking the same thing, judging by how he eyed her up and down with a small playful smile. But she sped up, and he slowed down, and they managed. They left the wharf behind in minutes, along with the noises and smells of it. To the left the Temple grounds’ walls rose, tall, and thick, and imposing, and unclimbable. The Temple might have been expecting her to come and serve, but it wasn’t the human one, so it would wait. They passed the fork, and the main road leading away from the town remained eastward, but they headed south, along the shore. </p><p>This path snaked between and past a sandy grove of sea buckthorn and dogwood. She’d never taken it before, and didn’t know that it led up the crag, and there were steps there as well, carved right into the stone, but crumbling and clearly unused. </p><p>“Barely anyone comes here anymore.” It didn’t sound ominous in the slightest, but, instead, sad. </p><p><em> My father brought me to Rheske when I was little, </em> he’d told her. <em> We would just wander around and take in the sights. </em>And she berated herself, realising only now that whenever he spoke of his adoptive father, he was using past tense. </p><p>That man was dead. Years or, maybe, decades dead. She squeezed Florion’s hand.  </p><p>“Your father used to bring you here,” she said out loud. </p><p>He looked at her. “He did. A long time ago. How did you know?”</p><p>“Because you told me.”</p><p>He smiled, and she saw that he believed her, but his expression was sorrowful. </p><p>It was unusual. She’d never heard the aldamaari speak of the departed with pain in their voice. She’d never seen them truly mourn their dead. They always spoke of it all as if it was a temporary inconvenience, and not them parting with their loved ones forever. </p><p>They walked. The path was leading up and up, narrowing further, and at a point Aoife paused. The way ahead didn’t seem treacherous per se, but she couldn’t help but remember the first ever dream she’d had of Florion. She stopped and let go of his hand. </p><p>He turned around. “Something the matter?”</p><p>“It’s dangerous.”</p><p>“It’s not.” He smiled reassuringly. “I promise you, it’s not.”</p><p>There was a wall of rock to her left, and the raging sea below to her right. She hesitated and shook her head involuntarily. His smile faded for a second. But then he chuckled, leaned down, yanked her by the arm, threw it over his shoulder, turned, and, almost soundlessly, lifted her onto his back, gripping her by the thighs, and just went on walking.  </p><p>“What are you doing,” she muttered into his hair. </p><p>He leaned his head back onto her face, said, “Trust me,” and started climbing. He didn’t hesitate for a single damnable second. She trusted him. But she still kept her eyes closed, until the light changed, until the ground flattened. He was panting slightly, and she felt momentarily guilty about that. About inhaling the scent of his hair, and about her hand that slid under his shirt, too, but less so. </p><p>Florion let her down on the flat rocks above the bluff. He looked as if he didn’t really want to do it, or maybe she’d only imagined it. There was a cape stretching forward in front of them, thin and rocky. It ended with what seemed to be a raised wild grove. There wasn’t, however, any lighthouse in sight.     </p><p>Aoife did not look back. </p><p>It took them, perhaps, a quarter of an hour to cross the barnacle-covered rocks and ascend to the improbable trees, and then she saw that it was rowans, growing over what must have been centuries-old ruins. There was still a polished stone here and there, and bones of a foundation, but not much else. </p><p>“Why was it abandoned?” she asked, shaking stray water drops off from the rim of her robe. </p><p>“I don’t know. Actually, I don’t even know if it was a lighthouse. But it looks like one.”</p><p>The foundation was unmistakably circular. It hardly could have been anything else. And the stones that comprised the towering structure must have been carried away by the sea a long time ago. Florion walked past the short trees, to the very edge. He seemed completely unafraid, despite the fact that now the sea was surrounding them on three sides. </p><p>She followed, and stood next to him, and looked forward and then down. She had to shut her eyes and hide her face in his sleeve. </p><p>“You’re afraid of heights,” he said, not accusingly but implying an apology. </p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>It was a lie, she knew that now. </p><p>“You are,” he insisted. And then, with emphasis on that one word: “There is no <em> shame </em> in that.”</p><p>She took a few steps back, and he didn’t stop her, but instead followed her to the trees. When not standing on the edge, she realised that it was, actually, a beautiful place. And a little sad. </p><p>She said as much to him, taking an aimless step away, and then: “Secluded, wild, overgrown piece of civilization that nature has claimed back.”</p><p>Aoife chose a flat stone that had been part of the foundation once, and climbed onto it, to reach and poke at the berries that must have somehow remained here from last year, shriveled, but still painted red. He walked over, and stopped in front, now even with her. </p><p>“We’re not the masters of the land we walk upon,” he replied. And then he kissed her. </p><p>He didn’t linger or take his time, or tease.  </p><p>His kiss was a wild, untamed thing, just like this grove; Hungry, and deep, and raging as the sea surrounding it. It wasn’t like those lustful kisses he gave her in the dream, because there was a raw, desperate, pained edge to it. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back and, for once, her head was empty of all thoughts, except for a single one: <em> happy</em>. </p><p>It wasn’t unplanned, he’d brought her here for this. No interruptions. No voices calling them away. No insistent hum of conversation around. </p><p>He said as much to her, still locked in her embrace.  </p><p>“I wanted this.” And then, suddenly: “Have I already kissed you? Did I forget this, too?”</p><p>She breathed out, “Yes.”</p><p>“What else did I forget?”</p><p>“A lot.”</p><p>“So tell me,” he said against her lips. </p><p>He grabbed her around the waist, lowered her, sat on that flat rock, and pulled her onto his lap. She hid her face in his neck and inhaled his scent deeply, lingering, not knowing how to begin. </p><p>There was more than one whole night this past week when she’d doubted there was anything worth telling. When, to herself, she cruelly insisted over and over that it was nothing but a tumble, a short fling, a nothing-on-a-stick, as her mother used to say. And failing to convince herself of this. </p><p>She was head over heels for this man. </p><p>Once upon a time, there was a sad, sad songstress that walked into a forbidden meadow, and saw a flower so beautiful, she couldn’t stay away. </p><p>He bared her scarred wrist, and kissed it, and let it go, and pulled her closer. </p><p>“I came to the caverns with the Temple sisters,” she started, her voice muffled in the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. “It was my first time there. The dreamers were waking up left, right and center. They carried them away one by one, and I was trying to help, but mostly I was just… there. Watching. Going back and forth between the caverns and the clinic. I had a flask of water and some bandages with me, but no one asked for those. You were the last one left when I saw you. You were supposed to awaken, too.”</p><p>She remembered that moment so clearly. It was evening already, and the caverns were empty, safe for a few caretakers, and her, and Drifeo, and two Temple sisters. She was the second to enter the room. Then they all stood silently and watched him sleep. He was so beautiful, and she felt so very guilty for staring. One sister tapped her foot and coughed, and the High Priestess heard that, and immediately proposed they come back in the morning. They didn’t have to. The caretakers have informed Drifeo that Florion still slept, and she, in turn, had that short conversation with Aoife when the latter inquired on the matter. The old, wise woman, ever so calm and unworried, couldn’t rid her of worry. </p><p>“So when you didn’t… I came back. And I kept coming back. Alone.”</p><p>He asked, “What did you do?”</p><p>“Ogled,” she said, and he chuckled lightly. “I sang to you. Said little things. Read out loud. Sometimes I just sat there. Then one day I fell asleep and had a dream. You were in it. And, turns out, it wasn’t really a dream.”</p><p>“What did I look like in the dream?”</p><p>This was an odd question to ask. </p><p>Aoife threw her head back to look at him, and he kissed her mouth again and then said, “Sorry,” and smiled. It was so hard to continue speaking when all she wanted was to be kissed. </p><p>“What do you mean? You were a tree.”</p><p>He laughed. “What?! A tree?”</p><p>“Well, yes.”</p><p>It has now occurred to her that maybe he didn’t remember anything at all. How was that possible? And what’s the point then? <em> What were the dreamers dreaming for?  </em></p><p>Florion repeated, bluntly, “A tree.”</p><p>“A big one. Like an old sycamore. You told me you always looked like this in that realm. And then I walked up to you, and you asked me what I was and what my name is and, well...”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>Oh, dear. </p><p>“Come now, Aoife, what did you do to me? You did not set me on fire, did you?”</p><p>“No, I did not harm you in any way.”</p><p>Despite the wind blowing, and the weather being chilly, and her shoes, and trousers, and the rim of her robe being all but soaked in sea water up to her knees, she felt herself go red and hot. <em> You were the one who set </em> <b> <em>me</em> </b> <em> on fire.  </em></p><p>“You had a face. On the trunk. So you kissed me.”</p><p>“Oh. Like this?” He lifted her head by the chin and kissed her. </p><p>Yes, like that. Exactly like that. Except no, not really. </p><p>“And then you woke up,” he probed. </p><p>“N-no.” She felt it was useless to lie but couldn’t utter a single word for almost a whole minute, instead making little defeated noises into his neck. He seemed to understand, or feel her pulse quicken, or both. </p><p>“The shame,” he stated, finally. </p><p>“The shame,” she echoed. </p><p>“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”</p><p>She started, “But you don’t even...” </p><p>He interrupted her. He didn’t normally do that. “There’s nothing. To be. Ashamed. Of.” </p><p>“Alright,” she said and shut her eyes. “Then I was naked, and you were, well...”</p><p>“Touching you,” he finished, running his hand down her back. Despite layers of clothing, it felt like a thunderbolt again. </p><p>“Yes. For a while. And then I woke up. I think I woke myself up that time. Because… The shame.”</p><p>“How did I touch you, then?” Florion whispered. “What with me being a tree and all?”</p><p>“You had those… Those… Like an octopus… But still a tree. Lianas. They looked like elanthie stalks but big ones. Smooth.” She inhaled after that last word. </p><p>He hummed, clearly evaluating the possible implications. Clearly wanting to ask. So she spoke hurriedly, “Then I met your friend, Ouhrion, by accident, and he asked me to check up on you, because he was worried. So I did. I was going to do it anyway. And I took silverhaze to fall asleep.”</p><p>He inhaled loudly.</p><p>Aoife interjected before he could speak, “I know it’s poison. You told me. I stopped.” </p><p>She paused. </p><p>He offered, helpfully, “And then you fell asleep again, a-a-a-and...”</p><p>“I came back. You were still the same. A tree with those… things. Except sometimes you had a face, and sometimes you didn’t.”</p><p>“What a weird tree I am,” Florion mused. </p><p>“Yes, well… I did it for the next four days, until you woke up. We talked a lot but mostly we… We…”</p><p>Florion finished for her, mercilessly, “Made love.” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He wasn’t done yet. </p><p>“I used those lianas to <em> fuck you</em>.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He pulled her in for another kiss, the hungriest and deepest one yet. She crooned into his mouth, withdrew and sighed, and wiggled in his lap, because it was suddenly not as comfortable as befo一</p><p>“Oh,” she exhaled. </p><p>When he next spoke, his voice was <em> that </em> voice, low and hoarse. </p><p>“So what exactly did I do, Aoife? Surely, with you, I didn’t stop on just the one. Was it your mouth I fucked then?” He ran a thumb across her upper lip, and she trembled in his grasp, “Was it your lovely ass?” He lowered his hand and squeezed her rear. She couldn’t breathe, she just held on. They were still at the windy rowan grove, sitting on a cold flat rock, surrounded by sharp edges and high bluffs, but for a second she felt like she was back in the dream again. </p><p><em> You wanton slut. </em> Kill it. </p><p>“It was… everything. That last night, just before you woke up, it was everything at once. After… After I asked you to bind my hands. And you did.”</p><p>He rose slightly and adjusted her position so that she was now sitting on top of him. </p><p>“Did you enjoy it?”</p><p>Kill it. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He seized her hips and brought them down. </p><p>She moaned against his mouth, the ache between her legs high and bright again. </p><p>“Did I make you come?” </p><p>So many times. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I’ll do it again if you let me.”</p><p>Kill it. </p><p>“I’ll let you do anything you want to me.”</p><p>Another kiss, and she nearly screamed. He kissed her until it became hard to breathe. She grinded on him almost involuntarily, and felt his cock, through the clothes, rock hard between her legs, and thought, “Oh, this thing is going to split me open. And I want it to”.</p><p>But it was cold, and it was windy, and the wet of her clothes overwhelmed all other kinds of wet, and he knew that. She pressed her forehead against his, attempting to catch her breath. </p><p>“Gods be damned, I brought you here just to kiss you, and look at me now,” he said, almost amused.  </p><p>“Look at us.” Aoife smiled. She felt so happy.</p><p>He brushed his lips against her cheek, as gently as seemed possible. His expression suddenly changed. </p><p>“You were crying. Because of me. Because I didn’t remember.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I don’t want to make you cry again.”</p><p><em> But he will. They always do, in the end, and it will be so painf… </em>Kill. It. </p><p>“Then don’t.” </p><p>“I’ll do my best. I promise.” </p><p>He stood up, still holding her around the thighs, and she hooked her legs around him. Her head brushed the rowan branches. </p><p>“Let me down?” she offered.</p><p>He didn’t. Instead he said, distractedly, “I wish I could remember. Maybe just to know what you like most.” Aoife dropped her head onto his shoulder, and gathered some of his hair into her palm. </p><p>“I could tell you right now.” Because she’d thought about it, many times, but only after coming to this land, and had a list ready, and added to it sometimes, in her mind. “I really like books where no one dies. Books that explain things really well. Plum pies. Grilled sprouts. Robes washed without starch and then dried in the sun. Playing the lyre when my fingers aren’t overweary. Thick tomato soup with crumbled goat cheese. Rubbing a lot of salt into a surface and watching the patina dissolve. Getting warm. Very hot baths with pine oil. Pushing the weft threads into place. Learning new useful little things. How air smells after the rain. Seeing acts of kindness. That feeling in your mouth after you’ve just brushed your teeth. The observation deck above Rheske. The whole of Rheske, really. Except, maybe, the tannery. Having my hair brushed. The moon when it is full but not staring into my window. Watermelons. Really, really hot tea that burns if you’re not care-”</p><p>He was chuckling like a mischievous child. </p><p>She looked into his face, and felt herself blush. </p><p>“Oh… You meant… Oh.”</p><p>He shrugged as best he could with his hands occupied, bit his lower lip and flicked one eyebrow, still smiling. </p><p>“You are a dirty, lecherous, disgusting man,” she said, and didn’t mean a single word. “And I don’t really know what I like in <em> that </em> sense… I’ve never… Not before you… If it even counts.”</p><p>He said, “Oh,” and then: “Well, I know what I like.”</p><p>Oh dear, dear, dear. </p><p>“Let’s see… Yes, definitely watermelons. Swimming until everything is rigid and numb. Pickled olives. Pickled eggplant. Gardening work. The first month of summer. When glass solidifies, and it’s exactly what I wanted it to look like. Mancala. Sleeping on my back. Hm-m-m… Oh! Sky lanterns. Fried cheese. Weighted blankets. Mallow. Verbena. Lavender. Wood sage. Snowdrops.”</p><p>“Snowdrops,” she echoed, incredulously. </p><p>He let her down. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>They went back, helping each other cross rocks that required no help in crossing, finding excuses to touch and hold each other. At least she did, but she was <em> almost </em> certain he did, too. </p><p>He said, as if hearing her doubt, “I don’t understand how this little voice could hate you.”</p><p>When they got to the precipice, she saw that the path was actually no fewer than four feet in width. Not scary at all, if you keep your hand on the rock surface. And he didn’t use his hands for balance at all when he carried her up. </p><p>“I think I can do it,” she said, and went ahead. One little step after another. </p><p>“Good girl,” he muttered from behind her, wind nearly carrying his voice away, but not quite. She felt his presence all along, and didn’t turn, or stop, or linger, until the rock path flowed back into solid ground again. </p><p>What she, in turn, didn’t understand: how it was even possible to experience such bright feelings for someone, and after so little time. </p><p>She swung back when they reached the crag, stood up on her tiptoes, took Florion by the collar, and he bent readily down, and she kissed him. </p><p><em> He’s leaving in two weeks. </em>Die. </p><p>They didn’t say a word, there was no need. She felt too deafened by her own sensations to speak, anyway. The surrounding world was a blur. Every step, immediately forgotten. But they did stop every few dozen of them to touch one another again. Aoife didn’t know, exactly, who was the first to do it every time. She thought, when her fingers were splayed on his neck, pulse beating into her palm, that it was both of them, really.  </p><p>When they got to the intersection, and she stepped tentatively onto the path leading to the Temple’s Eastern gate, he took her firmly by the hand again. </p><p>It looked as if he wanted to say something, and was either carefully choosing his words, or musing something. She also wanted to say or, rather, ask something, and that would be, “What now?” </p><p>She wasn’t prepared for this. Weeks, months of suffering, and trying to move on, yes. Being miserable, and attempting to distract herself, yes. Being kissed by him off his own volition, and getting him back, no.  </p><p>Finally, he spoke, “May I see you again tonight?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Tonight, tomorrow, every night. For as long as we have them. </p><p>His smile was a ray of sunshine, appearing from behind a cloud. And then she embraced him around the neck, and the next moment, her feet were dangling in the air, because, having obviously grown tired of bending down so low, he raised her up. </p><p>It didn’t bother her as much as it did before. To him, it seemed, she was no heavier than a cat. Or he made it appear as if she was. </p><p>It was also much easier to say what was on her mind without her feet on the ground. </p><p>“There’s one thing that I learned I really like, when in your dream realm,” she whispered. </p><p>“M-m-m, yes?” he responded, faintly, nose and mouth buried in her hair. </p><p>It felt like crossing an invisible threshold. </p><p>“I like it when you… Say aloud what you want to do to me. What you are going to do to me. I really, really like it.”</p><p>He pushed her closer, and she felt herself being smothered in that embrace, and didn’t mind in the slightest. </p><p>“That so?” he murmured. “Well. If I start speaking about it now, we will freeze to death. So I will just say this, for now.”</p><p>She held her breath, heart beating violently into her throat. </p><p>“The thing about that ointment,” he said, “is that it needs to be applied repeatedly to be of any use.”</p><p>Does it still count as deja-vu if you know why you’re feeling it?</p><p>Aoife giggled. “Let me down.”</p><p>Again, he didn’t. “So. The Temple Bathhouse. You. Me. Tonight. Same room. After the tenth bell. And I promise you,” he brushed her cheek with his nose and finally let her down again, “I will not do a single thing you don’t want me to do.”</p><p>She closed her eyes. Promise… She’d kept hers, after all. But the word steered something in her. </p><p>“Your gift. It was so beautiful. I didn’t thank you...”</p><p>“And you don’t need to.”</p><p>“Does… Does it mean something, other than just being a gift?”</p><p>She knew she was blushing, and she knew the answer already, and also knew that the words he might have said next had the power to knock her out completely, but she couldn’t help but ask. Because Aoife did indeed <em> really, really like it. </em></p><p>He brushed her lips with his thumb, and said, “Yes, it does.” And then said nothing else, and bent down to kiss her goodbye. </p><p>The kiss lasted this time, slow, probing, lingering. She didn’t want Florion to go. He did not want to go. But when they did part, she still felt his lips on hers for hours, and her head was nothing short of an excited buzzing beehive. </p><p>And <em> someone </em>noticed. That someone eyed her with glee, and a smile the exact same size and cloying sweetness of a melon slice, but, thankfully, miraculously, Mahri did not say a thing about the matter. There was so much work to be done. The Temple gardens were, after all, the only widely available communal source of medicinal herbs in the city. As far as Aoife knew.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Praise Kink, Size Kink (both are here to stay), Acrophobia</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Trust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Green guy learns a new concept, takes Immigrant girl on a date to a place his dead dad used to take him hiking. Such a romantic!<br/>*Big damn kiss, but not as big as the author’s size kink.<br/></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Freshwater is abundant in their lands. They are the cleanest of creatures I have seen, and their affinity to washing appears to be part of their religion, elsewise I do not know why they would do it so often and so thoroughly. For reasons unknown they wash their hands before and after taking their meals, despite using elaborate utensils and not eating with their hands. Every morning they perform ablutions and every evening they thoroughly wash their bodies and hair, using varieties of soap, in opulent public palaces with running hot water. Even when in such palaces, they still know no shame and obscenely undress and wash in front of each other, men and women together. They then apply odorless powder to places that are known to perspire more than others. Unnatural behaviour.”</em>
</p><p>In the afternoon the High Priestess summoned her. She didn’t think much of it this time. She knew worry would inevitably come, but in her head there simply wasn’t any space for it at that moment. It was too occupied with his voice, his smile, his scent. Every thought and movement and step and word was Florion. </p><p>And the High Priestess once again offered her food, which Aoife once again didn’t eat, although not out of fear this time, and once again the conversation immediately veered into music. </p><p>How did Aoife find those lessons she’s been taking, Drifeo asked.</p><p>And she responded that it was really hard to tell after the two, but when it came to music, she really didn’t mind the instrument, as long as she got to play it, and to sing. </p><p>“Well then. How would you like to dedicate more time to it?”</p><p>“Sure,” Aoife mumbled, without thinking. “Wait, do you mean… Would I have to stay late in the evenings?”</p><p>“Oh no, dear. Not at all. You see, the thing is… You aren’t obligated to help around the grounds. You took on the responsibility yourself, and we are grateful, but if you had better things to do with your time, like play music every day you’re here, say, after lunch, there would be no problem with that.”</p><p>“But… I <em> want </em> to help,” Aoife said. And she meant it. She might have had less energy and enthusiasm for hard work than some aldamaari unexplainably did, but she still enjoyed giving to the community. When the community was this one, of course. </p><p>“But you’d be doing us a service,” Drifeo offered, with a kindly smile. “In time, you might replace our organist. Your teacher is getting old, you see, and is thinking of retiring, at least from these duties.”</p><p>To her, the honor and the trust offered, couldn’t have been greater, but she could barely believe her ears. </p><p>“You would… Have a human… Play music during… Your service?” she asked, quite incredulously. </p><p>“And why wouldn’t we?”</p><p>She didn’t know what to say to that. Aoife had to admit, the offer was very tempting. As much as she loved work, and the company of friendly women, she liked music more. </p><p>“Here’s how it’s going to work. Your teacher will bring you sheet music, and task you with exercitations, and, oh, I guess, she will examine your progress every Alda day. She’d already sent some papers, here you go. Do you think this is a manageable method?”</p><p>“Yes, my lady. But I’d rather start the day after tomorrow, if that’s alright.”</p><p>Digging in the dirt was easy. Banging oversized keys, memorising tunes and concentrating on her actions wasn’t. Not when her thoughts were already concentrated on that damnable room in the bathhouse. </p><p>“Of course, dear. So there are five harpsichords we have around town, and you may choose whichever you like to practice on.”</p><p>This was an odd thing to say, considering that she already knew where the nearest one was. </p><p>But Aoife simply said, “Alright. Thank you, my lady.”</p><p>“Well, run along then, dear.” </p><p>She was expecting the High Priestess to advise her <em> not to rush, </em>but, oddly, the High Priestess didn’t. Not this time. </p><p>And then, time dragged. She tried to think of the exciting opportunity she’d been given. Of the good work she’s been doing throughout the day. Of the weather. Of the migratory birds’ return. Nothing worked. Her thoughts kept coming incessantly to him, and painted pictures upon pictures, and some made her blush, and others, stumble. She wanted each and every one of them to come true. </p><p>At the end of the day, after washing dirt off her hands and eating food that must have been delicious, but to her, it went unnoticed, because her tongue was already anticipating other tastes, Aoife went to sit at the instrument after all, and brought the sheet music with her. Caileen had sent her nursery rhymes, as it turned out, and they were all very simple to learn, as most of them consisted of three notes, repeated over and over. She carefully played some, and then played again without looking, and then practiced improvising, and practiced some more, and felt suddenly reassured. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she <em> did </em> have a talent for music, such as it was.</p><p>That little voice in her head had a differing opinion, of course. But she’d told Florion she was done listening to it, and thought of it as another promise to keep.   </p><p>She came to the bathhouse late, when the girls were already wrapping up, so she’d had the place nearly to herself. She washed without anyone trying to pull her into cheerful conversations, and found it rather pleasant. The fear was gone. Maybe the steam room helped, or the bath. Or maybe common sense, of all things. He did say he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. His words, she did believe, decidedly, for once. </p><p>Wrapped in a sheet, same as before, she crossed the main hall. There were a couple of people remaining in the deep flowing pool still, but they paid her no mind. Aoife opened the door to the healer’s work room, and peaked inside. There was no one there, and it was dim, with only one lamp still burning. She stepped in. </p><p>An arm wrapped around her shoulders, another, below her breasts, and both simultaneously yanked her backward, to their bearer. She yelped, faintly. Normally she would have screamed and struggled when touched so suddenly, but she immediately recognized the scent, even hidden behind the soap, and the way-too-fragrant smell of the room filled to the brim with perfumes and ointments. She gasped at the sensation of burning skin pressed against her shoulders. Aoife was already warm, with more heat rising to her neck by the second, but Florion was fire. He pressed her closer, and held her locked firmly in his embrace for a few timeless moments, rubbing his chin against her damp hair. </p><p>“I have been thinking,” he murmured without preamble or greeting, because, she realised, his touch was both, “of those little sounds you make when I hold you.” </p><p>Perhaps, he wanted to say more, but he turned her around and kissed her instead, impatiently.  </p><p>She thought, “I have been thinking of the way you groan when you watch me unravel before you. And of how you called me yours, and of how hungry it made me feel. Of how your kisses taste, and of how your fingers grasp my chin to lift it gently up when you’re yearning for one more. Of how easily you carry me around, and how protected I feel in your arms. Of how I never expected to feel so safe again, until you.”</p><p>Perhaps she had the power to say it all out loud, but she hadn’t found it yet. </p><p>“You were in my thoughts, as well,” was very much all that she could muster. The kiss was still burning on her lips, memory born anew. </p><p>He offered, “Tell me more?”</p><p>Aoife simply shook her head. </p><p>He understood, but did not back away, instead pressing her close to his bare chest. He neither apologized nor asked if it was her shame stopping her from speaking; neither inquired if his manner was somehow offensive to humans, or to her, nor did he push the matter any further. He understood... She didn’t quite know how. Maybe it was the power of empathy most aldamaari possessed, or maybe it was <em> just Florion</em>. For a second, pure gratitude overwhelmed all other feelings she had for him. </p><p>But just for a second. </p><p>She freed herself and took a step back to look at him. </p><p>“May I touch you?” Aoife whispered weakly. </p><p>“Yes.” And it sounded more like a plea than simple consent. </p><p>And so she did. </p><p>He let her explore him. Radiating heat and a promise of movement, yet motionless and silent. She traced the contours and planes of him; everything that she’d been dying to touch while by his side in the caverns, and yet dared not reach out for. She traced his sleek jawline, and his collarbone, and shoulders, and trickled her fingertips down his chest, to the outline of that same familiar snowdrop that was still there, unchanged (did he know? she guessed he did); and the muscles on his stomach tensed, and Florion inhaled through his teeth, and it sounded a tiny bit like a hiss, and she really liked the sound. </p><p>His forearm had a couple of fresh burns on it, with a thin semi-transparent layer of dried ointment on top of each. They were small but very painful-looking. Florion noticed her gaze fixed on them. </p><p>The implication scared her. He didn’t have any before. Could it have been thoughts of her distracting him so much that he let <em> molten glass </em>burn him? She dropped her hands and backed away. </p><p>“Stop thinking about it,” he said suddenly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I said, stop thinking,” he repeated, smiling. “And come back.”</p><p>She attempted the former as best she could and successfully accomplished the latter. Aoife splayed her fingers flat on his breastbone and let his heartbeat prickle her ring-finger. Booming, frantic, overwhelming, yet by some miracle contained safely in his unmoving form, like a horrible force waiting to be unleashed. She let her palm slide down over the tense sinewy muscles of his abdomen again. </p><p>There was a towel around his thighs, hanging low, wrapped just above the hip bone. It didn’t hide much of his arousal. Aoife wanted it off. </p><p>And again, he <em> knew </em> that she did, so he took it off in one motion and threw it on the slab without uttering a single sound. Her disorientated gaze slid across his face for a moment, and she expected to find a smug expression there, a <em> do-you-like-what-you-see </em> grimace, but didn’t. His face was tense, and vulnerable, and a little alert, and for another moment, she thought of that one time in the dream when she absurdly thought him shy. This was him now, and there was nothing absurd about it. </p><p>And then there was that third impossibly long moment when she stepped closer to him and traced her finger down his hip bone, and <em> squeezed </em> the base of his manhood in her palm. “Oh drat, my thumb can barely reach my fingers,” was her first thought. The second, about how burning hot to the touch his skin was down there. The third, “I want this in me.” </p><p>She wasn’t really gentle. She didn’t really know what she was doing, nor did she have the presence of mind to stop and think on whether it was causing him distress. Evidently it did, to some degree, because he stopped her and grabbed her shoulders, and all but planted her on the slab. He wasn’t really gentle either. </p><p>And then he took the towel and put it back on (no, why?), and he barred the door with a chair, and came back to her side, and altogether it took him no longer than five seconds. </p><p>“Now,” he said, voice nearly <em> pained, </em> “May I touch <em> you</em>?”</p><p>His eyes were so, so hungry. And the alleged curative visit to this room, all but forgotten. </p><p>She nodded. And then she was pressed gently down until she was on her back, and the sheet circling her was unwrapped, and the edges of it slid down the slab, and she was <em> naked, completely naked </em> before him, and it wasn’t a dream or a fantasy, this was real, and Florion was looking, what if he hated what he saw, <em> cover yourself, </em>and, oh for the love of…</p><p>“Aoife. Look at me,” he said, almost sternly, as if sensing her panic. She did. “Do you want me to stop?” </p><p>No, she did not. She really, really did not want him to stop. </p><p>
  <em> Tell him to stop, you slut.  </em>
</p><p>“No.”</p><p>She hindered her hands from covering her torso, and made them drop instead, fingers clenching into fists. </p><p>“Oh gods, so beautiful.”</p><p>Florion was so fast in his next movements, they almost seemed a blur to her. He produced a bottle of oil from somewhere and upended it over the hollow between her breasts, and watched, spellbound, as it trickled down onto her stomach. His gaze, his hands, the coolness of the oil, everything together was making her shake almost feverishly. </p><p>She was tentatively exploring when she touched him but he, instead, was simply <em> touching</em>. He trailed the oil back onto her breasts, and shoulders, and her sides, and stomach, and down, and down. Palms encircling hips, slithering up her knees and down her calves and then all the way up again. He didn’t leave a place untouched except for one, where she wanted to be touched most, and she tried to show him, lifting her hips ever so slightly, and whimpering, with palms clinging to both sides of the slab. </p><p>And then he.</p><p>Smiled. </p><p>“Something you want to say?” he asked, and trickled his fingers down her inner thigh, still never touching her nether lips. </p><p>She couldn’t. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t ask. Not yet, anyway. She bit her lip almost bloody and shook her head erratically. </p><p>He didn’t lie when he’d said he could be very gentle. He barely pressed onto her skin, simply letting the slickness of the oil guide his fingers. There was no method to his ministrations, just this: touching everywhere he could reach, and caressing, and circling, and pressing tenderly, ever so slowly. Such sweet, sweet torture. </p><p>She whispered, “Please.” </p><p>He arched an eyebrow. “Mmm?” And pinched her nipple. She shuddered. </p><p>“Please, Florion.”</p><p>Maybe he did want her to beg, but he wouldn’t push too far. </p><p>Because the next moment he grunted and all but fell upon her. His mouth firmly on her throat, open and hot; lips gliding, teeth scraping, tongue pressing in. Some of the oil rubbed off on him, and he was resisting, and yet still sliding deliciously against her skin. Her nipples <em> ached</em>, her abdomen shivered under his fingertips, her arm flew up to encircle his torso. </p><p>He brought his mouth right to her ear and一</p><p>“Come on, sweet thing. If you won’t say it, you’ll have to show me. Show me where you want to be touched.” </p><p>Inside her head she shouted, <em> everywhere everywhere everywhere.  </em></p><p>Outside, she said nothing, because she wasn’t able to speak anymore. Aoife grasped his wrist and dragged it down and there was, perhaps, a fracture of a moment in which she thought “Am I really doing this?” and then, “I really am”. </p><p>Leaving her throat alone, he rose slightly and it seemed like his entire body took up her field of vision, no, her entire world. He glided his long and graceful fingers down and over her folds, not even attempting to invade, and exhaled at the sensation in unison with her. He said, “You want me,” as if he doubted that before, as if it was possible to doubt it with her sprawled in front of him, breathing heavily, mewling. And then his fingers were moving, and it wasn’t a practiced motion, not what she was used to doing to herself. It was erratic and probing; an experiment, a study. Through half-closed eyes she saw him watching her intently, inspecting her reactions. </p><p>Finally, he found a rhythm. She helped him find it, arching her back to meet his fingers, to adjust. Aoife forbade herself to think any thoughts at all, she simply closed her eyes and let her arm rise back up around him, while the other was holding on to the slab for dear life. </p><p>When he slid half a digit in, she dug her nails into his back, and he groaned. She yearned to be kissed fully on the mouth, but he didn't give her that, just teasing the tip of her tongue with his, and it was lewd, and almost bestial, and somehow added to the sensation the way a full deep kiss would not, and she was close, so close. </p><p>“I want a taste,” he said, and then he stopped, and he withdrew, and he rose up, and she nearly screamed, and then he grabbed her and turned her over.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Unwrapping her felt like unwrapping a present. It wasn’t a present from a friend, but he wanted to devour her either way. He felt ecstatic, greedy, disorientated, not quite knowing what to touch first, so his hands chose for him, and they chose her breasts, palmed them, squeezed, and pinched the nipples, and she arched her back to rise into them. It took a mountain of self control to pause and to reach for a bottle of oil he’d smugly stashed nearby beforehand, and to rip out the cork with his teeth and spit it away, into a somewhere else that didn’t matter or, really, exist at the moment. </p><p>She was so warm, pliant and soft, and so very wanting, and he yearned to please her, but there was something else there, too, in the depths of his mind. Something as dark as the night encroaching down from the mountains. He wanted to be gentle; but he wanted to dominate her, test her boundaries, and to fuck her senseless right now, without preamble, right here on this excuse of a table, and– </p><p>He’d have to watch out for that. At least for now. </p><p>Her eyes locked with his, and breath rushed into her, then she closed them again, as if she was too scared to keep them open. She might have been. He’d have to watch out for that, too. </p><p>When she called his name, she called it like she knew it for a very, very long time. Not just a day, or a month, or a year, or ten. </p><p>He touched her again, and again, and some more until touching wasn’t enough and he wanted to taste, too. He barely realised what he was doing when he turned her over and grabbed her ass and jerked it to the side and up; he wasn’t gentle, not by a long shot. Her oiled knees slid easily across the marble. Florion tucked something under them (was it a towel? the crumpled sheet?), hands nearly shaking. The whole of <em> her </em> was shaking now, though. Hands gripping the edge, shoulders and elbows sprawled on the slab. The angle parted and exposed her, she was obviously very aware of that, and aware of him watching. Her breathing was unsteady, gasping, her eyes, closed. <em> She’s never been like this, </em>he reminded himself, weakly. </p><p>Again, he asked, “Do you want me to stop?” not exactly knowing how he would, if she said “yes” this time. </p><p>After a pause she breathed a blessed “no” once more. He hoped it was an open invitation: not just to cross the doorway and sit at the table but to pull out the tablecloth from under the dishes, knock off the lamps, heckle the musicians and trash the entire place. </p><p>All the while, he realised, his fingers were stroking the inside of her thighs <em> soft so soft</em>, and praying for her to make another little sound, like those she did before. Looking to elicit more of them, he touched her with his finger, and nearly growled yet again because of how wet and wanting she was, and because, yes, she did make that sound right then. Aoife also jerked forward, away from him, but he caught her with one arm, and held her firmly in place around her lower back. </p><p>“Don’t move,” he whispered. She stilled in an instant. If he wasn’t that dizzy with desire, maybe he would have taken a second to really appreciate the trust given. Instead, it’s registered in the back of his mind, and the front of it was all quiet explosions and haze. </p><p>Paradoxically though, for a second he thought about how much he wished he had more hands than just the two, as she said he’d had in the dream. One to hold her in place and leave a mark on her flushed skin, two to to cup her breasts, a few more to wander around her body, one to flick a finger over that tiny asshole for the sheer pleasure of seeing it - and the entirety of her - twitch, and—</p><p>He did just that, and her breath caught. He moved lower. He still had that one hand, and soon, he won’t need it at all to convey a message. Mouths usually do the talking.  </p><p>A perfect little plum glistening with dew. He wanted to bite into it voraciously, feel the juices flowing into his mouth. He held on. Just one finger, all the way inside this time <em> oh gods, so tight</em>. He pumped it experimentally, and the resistance was tangible despite how wet she was. All clenched muscles and tension. Also, this next whimper he didn’t care for. It was one of pain. He withdrew immediately, not exploring the option further, leaned down and placed a chain of gentle kisses on her thigh, as an apology. It was going to take some time, she’d said it would <em> don’t rush </em>but he’d be damned if they both weren’t going to enjoy that time. He licked his lips. </p><p>Now <b>this</b> animalistic snarl, he could have sworn he didn’t make of his own volition, when his mouth enveloped her folds and his eager tongue darted forward to taste her. No, it was pushed out of him by an unseen force that was now taking over his mind and spoke only in short bursts of sensations more than it did words. Florion was all lips and teeth and tongue and tongue. </p><p>He held her thighs in a grip that was steel and now, with her squirming, keening, whispering his name and scraping her nails on the marble, no, truly, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Rock hard and very nearly dripping, he threw off the towel that still miraculously hung around him and squeezed his cock. He really did growl this time, moving his tongue inside of her and then out, in time with the strokes of his palm. It didn’t feel sufficient, the rhythm was all wrong <em> don’t be selfish</em>. He sucked her in as if he was a goddamn lamprey, and then licked, and kissed, and licked again, and then found a spot that made her howl, and sped up and <em> oh gods the sounds  </em></p><p>“Pleasepleaseplease don’t stop!”</p><p><em> Why would I ever, Aoife. </em> The sounds he was eliciting out of her, and the smell and the taste of her, and the way she shook, all raw and flushed, and her toes curling, and his name, a prayer on her lips; and then <em> let go, let go </em> she was stiff in his grip, and her momentary silence turned <em> oooh yessss </em>at once into one unbroken scream as he was lapping her like a thirsty animal, until the shaking stopped, and he gave her one last long lick, and let her sink down to catch her breath. The trace of his palm was visible on her thigh, and the imprints of his grasping fingers, burning white hot. He didn’t feel guilty about that. </p><p>She unsealed her eyelids, looked back and up at him from behind her shoulder, and at his hand still pumping his cock, and somehow this gaze was his undoing, and not everything that came before it, because it took four more strokes of his hand, just four, and he was hissing, and gasping, and clinging to her, and making a mess of the place. </p><p>He didn’t quite register the moment when she slid down from the slab and onto her knees before him, took the head of his cock in her mouth, and licked it clean as if it was candy <em> oh gods what would it feel like to come right into her mouth </em>and he felt, or maybe imagined, that little humming that she made, reverberating through him. Then she looked up at him and swallowed, and licked her lips. His mind was all a deafening ruckus. </p><p>“You taste just like your flowers,” she said, voice little and broken and happy, and he didn’t really understand what she meant by that but <em> gods </em>the way she said it, that was the end of him. </p><p>He scooped her up, lifted her and marched to the door, knees weak but holding, and kicked it open. There was no one out there and the lights were dim. He felt drunk. He felt like doing something stupid. So next, there was this: him, coming to the deep end of the pool and then taking one step over it, Aoife in his arms, wiggling slightly and making tiny noises of protest all the impossibly long and slow way down <em> did time stop  </em></p><p>They sank nearly to the bottom and emerged, still clinging to each other, and swam to the shallowest edge, and she was laughing and splashing, and maybe calling him names, he didn’t care, he kissed her laughing mouth, the laughter ceased, and she threw her arms around his neck, and her legs, around his waist, and kissed him back. It felt like being underwater again. </p><p>She said, “I've missed you,” when the kiss was over <em> I want a million more </em>and he wished he knew, no, remembered what exactly she’d meant but then realised that yes, he did, because he’d missed her too, although he didn’t quite know how it was possible. And yet he almost felt whole again. </p><p>The laughter was all but gone now, replaced by heavy breathing. She detached herself, climbed up, sat on the edge of the pool, reached for his hand, and placed it on the bare smooth mound between her legs. </p><p>“Your finger. Try that again,” she said. </p><p>He tried again. He said, “Relax”, and this time she did and took it in, nearly all the way <em> oh gods it’s maddening how much I want her</em>. </p><p>Mouths open against one another, breath heavy, oil and water and sweat and <em>I want her, I want her so much </em>and her delicious whimpers, born anew. He thought himself spent. He really, really wasn’t. </p><p>“I’ll break you in, sweet thing. I’ll do it slowly. And then I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk properly after.” </p><p>There were other desires threatening to spill out of him, some of them dark, and heavy, and very nearly vows. </p><p>“You… promise?” she breathed, clinging to him, open, flushed, delicious, beautiful, impaled on his finger. He added another. It hurt her, clearly, despite how wet she was. He didn’t stop. She didn’t stop him. He used his thumb to circle her clit, and felt her clamp down on him like a shell. The sight of her like this steered something in him, something familiar. </p><p>“Oh yes, I do.”</p><p>He was stubborn, he was selfless, he didn’t rush, and he kept whispering into her ear, and it was things he yearned to do to her but mostly, her name, just her name, and she came again, despite the pain, clenching his fingers insanely hard. </p><p>She all but dropped from the edge into the water. She was so weak and limp, he had to carry her to the changing room and dry her slowly, carefully, and dress her. </p><p>When she opened her eyes, they were hazy, drooping and blissful, and he kissed her, and she smiled. </p><p>She said, faintly, “Ugh. I’m so happy.”</p><p>As if it was a bad thing. </p><p>He was happy, too. And it was the best. </p><p>Well. Quarter of an hour later he wasn’t as happy because he found out that some caring, friendly and - also selfless - artisan had painstakingly crafted a bed fit especially for a human, placed it merrily in her cottage and, no doubt, received great many thanks from her. </p><p>He wanted to stay. He desperately yearned to sleep next to someone who wanted him there. He couldn’t. Instead he sat with her until she fell asleep, and thought of the sea. </p><p>During his journey home many springs ago the ship Florion was on just so happened to stray further from the shore than it was customary, and got into a storm. It wasn’t the worst one, not really, and not even an extraordinary occurrence at this time of year, or so the crew said. They called it “just a lil dustin’”. Not enough to instill panic and fear of imminent death in them, but enough to push them into resoluteness and brisk action, anyway. He offered help to which they amiably told him to fuck off because snotty teenage passengers like him ought to remain passengers, no matter the circumstances. But he didn’t want to stay in the hold. So they tied him to the deck with a rope around his waist, splaying him across some cargo like a living safeguard, and told him to hold on, and left him to his own devices. </p><p>After the rocking started in earnest, after the first few waves hit the deck, after his whole body stopped twitching at the booming roars of thunder, after his ears went nearly deaf from it and from all the shouting, after he was soaked head to toes, he suddenly found himself enveloped in a feeling he’d never experienced before. At that moment there was not a single thought in his head that wasn’t chaotic and immediately forgettable. Nor distress or dread. He didn’t know if the ship would make it (of course it would), nor did he care. There was just this: vaguely registering your own attempt to hold on and to learn, on the go, to balance the whole body in an entirely new way, while positively choking on that wild, horrible thrill that made one want to scream out loud just for the hell of it. </p><p>This was how he felt right now. </p><p>Back then he'd described the feeling to Ouhri as best he could and afterwards wondered if it was, at least partially, this tale that pushed his best friend into choosing the sea over land, in the end. </p><p>He remembered what replaced the bright sensation afterwards. The all-encompassing gratitude, respect and love for the gift of life, for every breath you take, and flutter of excitement at any passing thought of the sea. Yes, the sea could be many things: your doom, your breadbasket, the hand that rocks your cradle. But that fleeting feeling was, in the end, why Florion found himself tied to it, why he trusted the sea to bring him solace, peace and lust for life. Why he wouldn’t travel by land if he could help it. </p><p>She slept, and the whisper of the waves that was her breath turned into a roaring storm inside his head. </p><p>His fingers slid under the pillow to adjust it, or to find a reason to linger for another moment, and found a spine, and pulled the book out, and <em> oh, hello, old friend</em>. </p><p>This was the third time he’d thought of staying in Rheske, and after a moment’s hesitation, his mind was made.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Dom/sub dynamics (here to stay), Sexual Anxiety, Overcoming Sexual Anxiety, First Time, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Come Eating, Aftercare</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Burn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl and Green guy poke each other with tongues and fingers, and fall in love. #YaoifeAndFloridaman4ever<br/>*Local horny idiots did not clean up a public space after getting jizz all over it, janitor mad, more news at 14.<br/>*How to explain a “roller coaster of emotion” in a universe with no roller coasters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Even on the ships they sail there is at least one tub that they fill with sea water and heat by methods unknown, to wash in it. Its form is that of a large trough. Such troughs can be found in most abodes, along with high basins to wash hands and faces in, and low deep basins with wider drainage to relieve oneself into. The latter have water flowing through them when you pull a lever that resembles a small rudder. They do not wear a piece of clothing for longer than a week without cleaning it, and a piece of underclothing for longer than two days without washing it. They are also maintaining their religious rituals of cleanliness in matters of expulsion of bodily waste. After relieving themselves, they thoroughly wash and dry their private parts in a special bowl that has water surging upwards. Public urination is frowned upon and discouraged greatly as, after one of my companions attempted to relieve himself into a flower bush during a walk, he was stopped by our interpreters and led to a privy nearby which was public but clean.” </em>
</p><p>Her dream that night ignored reality and didn’t echo any of it. Instead, Aoife walked among unknowable humming walls, barefoot on a cold metal surface, knife in hand, unmistakably possessed by the kind of resolute anger that only arrives at the end of a very long grieving process. </p><p>It wasn’t a nightmare. But it wasn’t really a pleasant dream, either, although Florion was with her in there, somewhere, invisible, and seemingly ever present. </p><p>Aoife woke up, and thought about it for a second, but then she remembered reality, and both sleep and the visions that came with it, were all but swept off her.  </p><p>It wasn’t a dream. It happened. And if she chose to disbelieve it still, the soreness between her legs argued that it really did. Remembering what exactly had caused her to feel so sore, made her whimper and hide her face in the pillow. </p><p>What baffled her the most wasn’t the fact that for a time, yesterday evening, she was so delirious with want that she’d forgotten that any late bather could have walked in on them. Florion had somehow managed to smother her shame, if only for an hour. Or the things he did to her with his tongue. No, what made her blush the most was the taste of him, and the implication that came with it. She remembered the dream and the flowers, and realised, It wasn't just them dropping improbable nectar on her. Considering the conversation that followed after in the dream, he might have not even realised what he was doing. But, oh, a single thought about this made her weak at the knees. She tried and failed to imagine anything that could have been more arousing than that. </p><p>Pretending, which required considerable effort, that it’s just another normal morning she went through all of the usual motions. She watered the seedlings, too, and thought of transferring the one she’d fished out of Florion’s bath into the backyard. It has sufficiently grown for the replanting not to be a risk. In fact, it seemed to be growing <em> too fast. </em> She’d ask Florion what exactly it was, if he even knew or remembered, and if she would find the capacity for speech upon seeing him again. How did people talk after this? After doing <em> that </em>to each other? </p><p>She continued pretending and went back to make the bed, and noticed that the book spine had been disturbed. Aoife pulled it out, not too sure yet about how she felt about him seeing it. There was a piece of paper sticking out, fashioned into an impromptu bookmark. She opened the book, her heart aflutter, and peered at the page first, and inhaled sharply. Then, at the paper Florion must have taken from a stash on her table, along with the pencil. He’d left a note, his handwriting sprawling, unbroken and wide, and It said “Now it’s your turn to choose.”</p><p>Her neck was boiling. </p><p>Did it mean he wanted this to be <em> something</em>? And if it did, was he planning on just entertaining himself with her body for a couple of weeks, before leaving her and Rheske behind for another half a year? Was she supposed to find him? Would he find her? Why was this so hard, why was this so painful, why did she have to choose him, was it really inevitable, what was this feeling, gnawing at her, this horrible foreboding, messing with all of her senses, was it一</p><p>She imagined him saying, “Stop thinking,” and made an honest, stubborn attempt to do so. </p><p>~*~</p><p>His hands were working, but his mind was somewhere else, namely, still painting vivid pictures of Aoife’s mouth and breasts, and altogether, here, now, it was an extremely dangerous combination. But the thoughts, and the song in his heart were so very pleasant, he’d decided to take the risk again. And, again, he paid for it. It wasn’t the tube that got him this time, but the kiln’s door. Both mistakes made were such pathetic, rookie ones, that Florion could scarcely believe his own body, and that it would let him down like this. <em> Come on, what’s going on with me.  </em></p><p>The proprietor whose name was Portionas, heard the pained hiss and left his own work, which nowadays was mainly tutoring a new boy, and came over to help. Again. </p><p>“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, standing and waiting, jar of poultice in hand, while Florion held his arm inside a bucket filled with water, grinding his teeth. “Did something happen?”</p><p><em> Did it? </em> Could the amazing, torturous process of falling for someone <em> because that’s what’s going on isn’t it </em>be described as “something happened”? If so, yes, it did, and it was happening, and it would continue to happen and to get worse, and the only solution would be, to get your shit together. Which he’d have to learn. Blindly. Just like he’d learned to stand on a rocking deck of a vessel caught in a storm, all the while trying not to fall down or, really, die in said storm. </p><p>There’s a first time for everything. </p><p>He admitted only half the truth out loud. “I’ll manage.” Florion’s eyes darted to the poultice, and he accepted the jar from Portionas with a grateful nod. It was a real good one, the one that forms a tightened, dry waterproof film over the burn in seconds. In passing, he wondered who and when had brought it. </p><p>There was a reason why he took the job; Not just to be useful, which, granted, was the primary one, but also, if need be, to replicate the lab, along with the distiller he’d had in Iquinous, and make his own stuff, and not rely on the Temple’s apothecary too much. Well he had that need now. He was staying. And thin flasks and retorts were his favourite to make, anyway. </p><p>He hadn’t yet thought of the precise words he’d say to Ouhri when the latter would arrive to take him back home, but he’d think of something. Ouhri was never big on this particular <em> something happening</em>, because he usually didn’t mix deep affection into the sex he was having.   </p><p>Right after dealing with the fresh burn, Florion resolutely went back to work, making a conscious effort not to think of Aoife, and yet she was still there, in the back of his mind, with everything about her gentle, delicious, warm, inexplicably familiar. He didn’t know why he felt the latter. Aberrations like him shouldn’t feel that from what, according to her, was four nights of polite conversation interspersed with <em>impolite</em> experimental sex acts performed in a dream-like state he never remembered properly. Maybe it was all those times she sat with him, and sang to him, which he’d also forgotten. Barely anything that happens in those caverns is ever really logical or fair. Maybe it was something else. Or maybe he needed to concentrate on his work harder <em>shit man we don’t want to smell our skin roasting again do we, no we do not, </em>and so he did<em>. </em></p><p>But by lunchtime, after distractedly scarfing down food in the communal kitchen he’d been assigned to, he couldn’t take it. Chewing on the fix in an equally distracted manner, he left the shop, and he went up along the Tanbark towards the cloth manufactory where, he knew, she was cooped up today, attempting to do good, just like him, just like everyone else. A ten minute walk, so close. And he was halfway there, valiantly <em> not </em> pinching his nose next to the tannery, when he saw her, rushing the same way in the opposite direction, towards him. She wore the hairpin he’d given her. And they saw each other. She paused. He paused. </p><p>And, probably yet again for the first time in his life, Florion found himself at a loss for words, and in what heavily resembled awe, if books were to be believed. So instead of speaking, he willed his legs to move again, and caught her by the waist, and kissed her in view of everyone and anyone who could have been around.  </p><p>It was such an odd thing, what was happening to him when she was near. He wanted to pace. He wanted to shout. He wanted to turn the whole world upside down and hold it by its legs and shake it. It seemed that it was something that only happened recently, and yet he couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment, no matter how much he tried. Was it last night? Was it days ago? Who the hell cares, it was here, and he was happy. </p><p>He kissed her, and nobody cared either, because why would they? This wasn’t Iquinous, where humans, distinctly different, were seen and saw themselves as cautious guests, never really mixing with his people, keeping what they thought of as respectful distance, which had the opposite effect to blending in, making them into an endless curiosity and an inexhaustible topic for gossip. This was Rheske, an odd, mysterious abnormality, just like Florion himself. Rheske, where the sole human, a novelty at first, had probably long since become part of the familiar, mundane background. Maybe they’d think he’s been kissing her all along, and they just weren’t paying attention. </p><p>Aoife did care though, he saw, and sensed. She wasn’t comfortable with this, no matter how eagerly she kissed him in return. It was either the irrational fear he’d recognized from his short and patchy conversations with the humans of his hometown, or shame, that mysterious ferocious beast endlessly chasing her. He wanted to tell her there was nothing to worry about, that nobody really cared, and later, after he dragged her to a secluded spot, a garden that a stream cut through, behind the paperworks, he did. </p><p>He liked her accent. He liked the way she talked, sometimes using old fashioned constructs from books, and sometimes stumbling through words, and smiling that shy and adorable smile, and starting over. Although, if he could have broken off a piece of his own self-confidence, wrap it up and give to her as a gift, he would. Because it would please her. He felt like he could watch her for hours, listen to her speak for hours. </p><p>“I know I shouldn’t care,” she said. “I know it but...” she trailed away. </p><p>“But you still can’t help it?” He moved a stray lock away from her face. She shifted in his lap. </p><p>“It feels a lot like… Imagine you’ve been struck by lightning. You survived, and they say the odds of being hit by lightning twice are non-existent, and yet, from that moment on, every time you hear thunder, you tremble with fear, and you hide, and it’s an instinct.”</p><p>He considered for a moment. “I guess I understand.” </p><p>And if he truly did, what she just said was, she knew the aldamaari weren’t prejudiced (mostly just good-naturedly curious, if even that), but she’s lived long enough among humans who were, and old habits are very hard to shake off. He told her his guess, she nodded. </p><p>“Something like that.” </p><p>By her shifting gaze and by how she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, Florion concluded there was something else, something she desperately wanted to ask him. Maybe it was about what happened yesterday. It was all new to her, after all. And, frankly, to him as well, although he felt nothing but rapture, and thought of nothing but the unraveling threads of opportunity ahead. But he aimed higher when he guessed out loud once more. </p><p>And, once more, she nodded. </p><p>“Well, what do <em> you </em> want us to be?” </p><p>She sighed and said, almost inaudibly, “Together.”</p><p>“That, we are.”</p><p>She shook her head faintly. </p><p>“But. You’re leaving soon.”</p><p>He brushed her soft cheek with his forefinger. “I’m staying.” Now he knew it to be true. Not just a plan, not just a vague idea. Aoife looked up at him, disbelief in her eyes. </p><p>“Staying… Just like that… But… Why?”</p><p>Florion wanted to say that she was the reason, but that would have only been a part of it. Once he had time to properly see Rheske once more, as an adult, he fell in love with it all over again. So many happy memories from childhood tethered him to summers in this town. Granted, some of them, especially one in particular, might have been a dream, and yet… He felt a pull to it, and to the face Rheske wore when all his fellows were up and away, and when the Valley was in bloom and then flooded Rheske with fresh fruit, and wine, and revelry. But yes, he felt a pull to Aoife as well, and it was strong, and bizarre, and almost overwhelming. </p><p>He grinned. “I really like it here. The food’s amazing!” </p><p>She tilted her head to the side, observing him. It was an odd gesture, and for a second she reminded him of a curious and slightly startled squirrel. She was slowly going pink, having realised the metaphor. But then she sank her face into the dip of his neck and <em> bit </em> him. </p><p>“Ouch! What was that for?”</p><p>“That was in case you’ve decided that earlier but didn’t tell me.”</p><p>She’d left the main part unsaid yet he all but heard it in his head. She knew he was leaving. It made her sad, and doubtful, and unsure. She went with him regardless. </p><p>“I only decided yesterday and wasn’t really sure how to say it. But, fair point. From now on I tell you things right away. And so will you.” He thought of her hesitancy to speak things out loud <em> I’ll chisel at it until it’s gone</em>, and of that little voice that plagued her, and added: “If it’s not something too hard for you to say out loud. Deal?” </p><p>She thought about it for a second, then said, “Deal,” and extended her palm. </p><p>They shook on it, all serious and businesslike, but both cracked a smile right after. He marveled again at how small her hand was in his. </p><p>Aoife evidently thought about it, too, and said in a half-whisper, “You’re… a mammoth!” </p><p>He laughed. “I’m not, I promise you. I’m average. You’re just really tiny, is all. How tall are you, five foot four?”</p><p>“Five foot five. And I wasn’t really… talking… about… Uhm.” she turned away, but not before he noticed she was blushing in earnest. </p><p>Florion took her by the chin and turned her face back to his, and lifted his eyebrows at her inquisitively. And then he said, “We’ll make it work.” She pursed her lips. “Come now, Aoife, you already have the book.”</p><p>She groaned and muttered something that strongly resembled “Drat!”</p><p>Until he’d chiseled deeper, he’d have to keep on guessing. </p><p>“Ashamed I found it? You shouldn’t be. It was my favourite when I was a teenager. We were bosom buddies, me and that book.”</p><p>Aoife sighed. “I know. You told me. In the dream. And...” </p><p>“And?” he inquired after a few seconds had elapsed. </p><p>“You’ve shown me.” </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>This next one sounded more like “oh damn oh damn oh damn.” </p><p>He waited patiently, and a grin was slowly blooming on his face <em> oh gods I’m going crazy for this girl</em>. </p><p>“That’s why I found it, after. That book. It was there, in the dream. And the pictures. They were us. You and me.”</p><p>“I see,” he said and then tsk-ed mockingly. “I am such a dirty, dirty tree, are you sure you want me?”</p><p>“Yes,” she blurted out, seemingly a second before her mind told her not to. He pulled her close, and he kissed her deeply. </p><p>“I want you, too.” Florion brushed his lips against her temple and whispered, “So many days ahead of us, Aoife. So many nights...” She shuddered in his arms, breath heavy, and he held her to his chest. He never knew it could feel so good to be desired. His chin brushed past the hairpin. He really, really liked that she was wearing it. He wondered if she knew what it meant. If not, he was so very eager to show her.  </p><p>“What did you mean,” she started, timidly, “in your note.” </p><p>“I meant,” he said, nuzzling her hair, “that if you telling me outright what you want feels uncomfortable, you can always just name a page in that book.” She tensed but, he thought, not in the worst way. </p><p>“So then... Would you choose, too? Would we take turns?”</p><p>“If you want.” </p><p>She hid her face in his collar, and from there, whispered, almost inaudible, “I do.”</p><p>His head was all a thunderous roar, with an orchestra thrown in, and the percussionist was so very drunk; And somewhere amidst this chaos, in the back of it, tucked safely away, was another sound. Pathetic wailing with unmistakably happy notes thrown in. </p><p>He guessed it was his fifteen year old self, cradling his tired hand and weeping tears of joy. </p><p>“We really should get back, shouldn’t we?” she said after another chain of deep, long kisses had been inevitably cut off again, because the need for air is an annoying bastard that cannot be avoided. She sounded gloomy. </p><p>“Afraid so. Do you not like what you’re doing?”</p><p>She shook her head, “Oh no, I do. I really do. It’s just...” Aoife trailed off. </p><p>“Yes,” Florion said. “And yes. But also. I’ll see you in the evening. Tonight. The square.” They’d eat together, and she would fill the gaps in his memory, especially Aoife-shaped gaps, and then… Maybe. Just maybe. That enormous house would no longer feel so abandoned. And that enormous bed, no longer so lonely. “I promise, if you don’t want to, I will not push you onto the stage to sing.”</p><p>“So you did see it.”</p><p>She smiled a smile that was sad, and relieved, and happy. </p><p>“I did. I wish I also knew what the song you sang that evening was about.”</p><p>“Then,” she told him, reluctantly getting up, “I will tell you later tonight. Once more.”</p><p>He didn’t burn himself again. Turns out, his mind had craved assurances, and got them, and was sated.</p><p>~*~</p><p>When the rapture of seeing him and learning that he went to look for her at the same time that she did, somewhat subsided, Aoife thought at length of how very odd it was, the casual way in which Florion spoke of staying. Did aldamaari just do that, out of the blue? Impulsively decide that they want to move to a different town and then do it, no strings attached? Did he not have a house back at Iquinous, or treasured possessions? Did he not have friends waiting? Did he not say that he loves his hometown? Sure, there was a surplus of housing in Rheske, and skilled labor is needed everywhere and always, but. </p><p>There was a part of her that wanted to blindly accept it, to just be happy about him staying, but it was the least vocal part. She <em> was </em> happy. She just wanted to see the whole picture. </p><p>The questions threatened to creep into the conversation she was having with him here, at the edge of the square, far away from the stage, where they could occupy a lone bench and get away from everyone while still being surrounded by passing crowds. She didn’t ask. Not yet. She wanted to get the rest out of the way, carefully retelling the dream, avoiding the lustful bits, and sticking to what she still hoped he would remember. He didn’t, though. So every single phrase was news to him. </p><p>They both needed <em> this</em>. She did because it grounded her, as she was used to being. He did because Florion still looked a little lost, bemused, his memories matted and episodical. </p><p>That’s why they chose this place. The necessity became obvious when they sat to eat together, finding the most secluded corner to do it. The way he wanted to feed her by hand, brushing her lips with his fingers nearly every time. The way she welcomed it. The way they quickly, almost wordlessly, made it into a game, an exchange, a metaphor. Their absolute inability to keep their hands and mouths off each other. All of it made maintaining a continued, lengthy conversation very, very hard. </p><p>From there, they had two choices. They could have discarded the conversation entirely, and gotten far away, where no one would see them, and where Aoife could forget her shame, if only for a little while, or they could have chosen to be surrounded by people on purpose. It was the latter, for now. It was much easier here, not to reach for him every second, not to yearn to move to his lap, not to think of his face buried between her legs, or his mouth open against hers, their tongues, tethered, his fingers, inside her, stretching her past the burn, and of how much she wanted all of this again, <em> now, now, now. </em>The ever present aldamaari proverb applied so well here, and it was grounding her, too. </p><p>“Moonlight towers. I talked about moonlight towers.”</p><p>“With awe. And how they’re new and great.”</p><p>“And this was it about them?”</p><p>“This was it.”</p><p>It’s not like he didn’t trust her words, per se, but Florion looked a bit incredulous, nevertheless. “I talked about moonlight towers, and how they’re great, but didn’t say how absolutely impossible it is to sleep when your window is facing one, and you don’t own the thickest curtains imaginable. I talked about moonlight towers, but didn’t say a thing about electricity.”</p><p>She shook her head and asked, “What’s electricity?”</p><p>He reached to cup her cheek, but changed his mind. If he touched her like that, he’d pull her in, and they’d probably start kissing again, and the thread would be cut and lost, and, obviously, he realised it by now. </p><p>“A power source. A dangerous one. They don’t use it here in Rheske. Not yet, anyway.”</p><p>She wanted to ask about it, but Florion was drawing lines on her wrist with his fingertips, and it felt so good, and she got distracted. <em> Stop, concentrate, don’t rush. </em> </p><p>“Alright. I guess… Alright. And all those other things you mentioned. It’s odd.”</p><p>Through the bushes they could see a small band playing on the stage, and Aoife even knew that the band was composed of harbor bookkeepers. They called themselves “Bunch of Counts”. The wind only had enough confidence to carry the drumbeat to where she was sitting. It was uneven. </p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>“It’s like it was someone else telling them. Someone who knows the same things I know, but is much younger than I am, much more…” he snapped his fingers repeatedly, and she smiled, because this was what she did, too, when looking for an appropriate word. “Idealistic? Someone who is in absolute awe of the world.”</p><p>She offered, “Give me an example? Aside from moonlight towers.”</p><p>He spoke so fast It seemed he had the answer queued. “I don’t really like Iquinous that much.”</p><p>Well this was new. And frankly, for a moment it seemed that he was somewhat offended that his dream self spoke so fondly of Iguinous. She felt a pang of worry. Aoife did tie him to everything she knew and thought about this town, after all. </p><p>“You don’t?”</p><p>“Gods no. I mean, it’s fine. Beruza’s worse. But. Me saying I go there in dreams all the time and implying that I feel nostalgic? I trust you that I did say that, Aoife, I trust myself not to lie, too, but… The smell, the noise, the cracks in the pavement, the shipyard, and those damnable towers! But all those things you say I told you. Doesn’t it seem like they’ve been said by someone else, and not me?”</p><p>“That’s an odd thing to ask. No, it doesn’t. Why?”</p><p>“Because some of my dream self’s reactions and words do not make any sense <em> at all</em>. Because I cannot help but wonder if my dream self is an entirely different person.”</p><p>She pondered on it, but didn’t see it clearly. Maybe she didn’t know him or the context well enough to make that conclusion. She thought about her own dreams, how they were often detached from reality entirely and full of metal, and of darkness, and silence, and wind, and of how in them she often felt so angry, and so uncompromisingly determined, two things she rarely was when awake. She also thought of how his lust manifested, in dreams and in reality. He was the same in that regard, and the memory of it prickled her mind and echoed between her legs. </p><p>“What do <em> you </em> think?” he asked, and looked expectantly at her. It must have been so peculiar for him, knowing that someone witnessed his dreams as an onlooker, an observer, and, unlike him, remembered everything perfectly. Speaking of which, the latter, how was that a thing?  </p><p>“I do not see it,” Aoife finally said. “And it wouldn’t be very logical to think that. We may be different when we dream, but it’s still us. Empirically, as well. Plus, you told me about your father. And all those other stories, like the one where he taught you how to blow glass bubbles. Was that not your favourite thing, like you said?”</p><p>“It was. It absolutely was.”</p><p>He looked so confused. She longed to touch him again. </p><p>“Do you usually not remember anything at all come spring?”</p><p>He longed to touch her, too. Just then, his hand crawled up her forearm and back down again. </p><p>“Bits and pieces,” he admitted. “The other odd thing is. Looking back now, I realise that, one. I’ve been doing this for fifteen winters, and each time I remember nothing but bits and pieces. And two. It’s really odd how I never before properly wondered about the cause of those gaps. How, to my knowledge, none of us do. Ever.”</p><p>Aoife wondered if he was measuring how much he was actually allowed to tell. Her eyes continually implored him to say more, so, after a pause, he did. </p><p>“We usually remember important things. Things we absolutely must remember. And even that is clouded, sometimes. Some of us remember visits. I did remember Ouhri, and it matches what you told me. But not the rest.” </p><p>Aoife was making futile attempts to ignore his palm slowly rubbing her knee, but then realised her own hand was creeping up his spine, planning to sink into his hair. They both stopped, and they both smiled. His smile was mischievous, hers, guilty. </p><p>She made an obvious observation out loud, “You look very confused. I didn’t expect to see you this confused.” </p><p>He said, “Yes, I just. I do not understand. Until this spring. When I sharply felt that something was missing. How come before I’ve never pondered on how nearly everything is actually missing? This really isn’t like me.”</p><p>She didn’t know what to tell him, although it was indeed a question worth asking. Aoife wasn’t a stranger to consciously ignoring parts of her memories that caused her pain, to pushing them aside, but to unconsciously discard a significant part of your life seemed bizarre. One had to wonder how long he’d ignore it, as if it was an unconditioned reflex, if she hadn’t barged into his dreams. </p><p>What she, in turn, found odd was how his dream self knew what was coming, and absolutely <em> dreaded </em> forgetting, to the point where, it seemed, it was causing him physical pain. So she told him, watching his beautiful golden eyes slowly go wide. And then she told him about the caretakers. This, she noticed, made his fingers curl into fists. </p><p>“Did they do anything else? Were they violent?”</p><p>“Not exactly. After they pulled me off of you and barred my way, they left it at that. Maybe they just didn’t realise their own strength. Maybe they feared for your well-being.”</p><p>He meditated on something for a solid five seconds, and slowly, forcibly unclenched his fists. “Would you believe me if I told you,” Florion finally said, “that it was neither. That they were actually protecting <em> you</em>.”</p><p>Someone he knew passed by them and waved, and made them both an offer to join yet another someone, in doing something else, somewhere nearby. Florion politely refused and turned back to face her, still awaiting an answer.</p><p>Aoife didn’t really have to measure her response this time. She still held a grudge, after all. A part of her believed, perhaps irrationally, that Florion would have remembered the whole thing if it wasn’t for the caretakers’ actions, and it would have spared her from what must have been the most miserable week in her recent life, and given them more time together. “In this regard? I’m sorry, Florion, I can’t. Not blindly, and not without context.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” His shoulders dropped slightly. </p><p>“Look… I know what you are going to say next. You are going to say, you cannot offer any more details, and that you’ve taken an oath.”</p><p>He nodded. “Just so.” Now his elbows were on his knees, back bowed, arms folded. He looked as if he was shielding himself. “I <em> am </em> sorry. I wish I could. I desperately wish I could. So there would not be a single thing that is to go unsaid between us.”</p><p>Just like they’ve agreed, yes. </p><p>“Florion,” she called after a pause. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked at her. “Those seeds. Do you pluck things out of your dreams and make them real? Is this what you do?”</p><p>“No,” he said, shaking his head and straightening his back, his tone serious and candid. “That would mean, I create something from nothing, which would be improbable. Impossible.”</p><p>“Magical,” she said, her tone hopeful. </p><p>“Magical,” he agreed, and what it really sounded like was, “non-existent”. “But keep asking questions, Aoife. You deserve to know. You really do. To be frank, I don’t understand why they haven’t told you.” </p><p>Because I’m still an outsider, she thought. </p><p>“You cannot give me direct information, and you cannot show me even indirectly. But maybe. Maybe you could give me a little hint. A word. A phrase.”</p><p>He thought about it. And he nodded. And then he said, “Don’t rush.”</p><p>Aoife felt like rolling her eyes. “Oh come on, surely...”</p><p>“No, you don’t understand,” he told her, waving his hand emphatically. “This <em> was </em> the hint. The pointer. <em> Don’t rush. </em> Generally addressed. In the plural.”</p><p>“In the plural,” she echoed.  </p><p>“Yes,” he said, and then he looked right into her eyes, and reached for her, and pulled her in, no longer able to keep his hands to himself, and breathed against her mouth, “But right now, in the singular. It's the one advice I’m having trouble following.” His voice was low, almost a growl. </p><p>They stopped half an inch short of a kiss. She reluctantly disentangled herself from the embrace, feeling, more than seeing, some people approach. </p><p>They passed by, girls from the Temple crowd this time, Shyle among them, and the latter waved, eyes like saucers. Aoife waved faintly back. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know we agreed.”</p><p>They did. They even shook on it again, and it seemed like a manageable endeavor at the time. To just sit, and talk, and retell, and compare, and finally get it all out of the way, and move on to more exciting things with clear consciousness. It didn’t seem that manageable now, though, for a multitude of reasons. </p><p>“Don’t be,” she told him, because she felt the same. Beside tonight’s agreement, she had so much fear in her, too much rationality to act upon her urges. That didn’t mean she didn’t have them. That didn’t mean she didn’t <em> hate </em> that rationality. “So tell me… That nightmare of yours.” The one that he said was plaguing him. With the woman crying, and the thunder, and the door. “It’s a fixture. So you do remember that, at least, right?”</p><p>“I do,” he said. “Unfortunately.” He rubbed his face with his palms. “And. I also remember that girl that just passed by. It wasn’t very nice, what she did… Look. I really am sorry, Aoife. About something else, as well. That is, we’ve been talking about me for the past two hours, and I feel like an absolute scum for it. You haven’t told me a single thing about what <em> you </em>have been talking about in there.” He waved his hand vaguely towards the Mountain Mother, shrouded in darkness above them. </p><p>It’s true that she didn’t. It’s true that he did try, at the beginning, to veer into that direction, but she resisted, stubbornly, and he gave up after a while. She knew he would bring it up again. She knew, as well, what exactly he wanted to know, what he suspected he already knew and didn’t remember. Anyone, really, who had seen her naked and had a heart, would feel like that. Florion’s heart was too big for his own sake, although it seemed at times that, unlike other aldamaari, he was trying very hard to hide it. </p><p>“It was honestly just empty drivel. Nothing I said was of any consequence. Except, maybe, my love for grilled sprouts. Of which you already know anyway.”</p><p>He looked at her very intently. “Stop. Now.”</p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“Stop denigrating Aoife. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s kind, and smart, and lovely, and I want to know everything there is to know about her. Stop it.” </p><p>He wasn’t addressing her, not really. Just a part of her. </p><p>“You did promise to tell me everything when we began. And you did. About me. Not about you. Start over,” he demanded, and straightened his back again. By everything that walks the world, he looked so imposing in that moment that for a second his sheer presence drove her into the ground. </p><p>This time, she knew, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she took a deep breath and got everything out of the way as fast as she could.  </p><p>She didn’t have the dream to magically translate the word for her, so she had to invent and use a linguistic patchwork out of five words, and then explain it all again, because it wasn’t a very good patchwork. Whatever he thought of his dream self being an entirely different entity, the reaction to learning about brothels all over again was <em> exactly </em> the same. Except this time, accompanied by the look of horror in his eyes, as well as the tone of his voice. The rest was easier. When she was done, he waited. She knew what he was waiting for.  </p><p>“I hadn’t told you. And you’d said you wouldn’t pry until I was ready to talk about it.”</p><p>He nodded. “Then I will stop prying for now. Until you’re ready.”</p><p>She measured her next words very carefully because Aoife didn’t want to sound condescending. </p><p>“I want you to know something. There is no need to worry about me. I’m already here. I’m home. I’m safe.” </p><p>
  <em> What went unsaid was, “Worrying about me is my job, not yours.” </em>
</p><p>She did notice a very un-boyish frown creep briefly onto his boyish features. He didn’t exactly argue, but he asked, “Even if I want to?” His voice was somewhat gloomy. </p><p>“Why do you think you want to?” </p><p>Why would anyone want to worry when they may not? Well, why had she been worried about him, when explicitly being told not to? Why was Ouhrion? Drifeo’s words and assurances had seemed empty to her, and yet there she was, spouting them. </p><p>For a moment, she thought he’d answer truthfully. He studied her face with concentration, unblinking. For a moment, she expected him to go ahead and admit to something important. For a moment, she was almost certain he knew something else she didn’t, something that wasn’t related to his slumber. Those moments passed, and he took a heavy breath. </p><p>“This is a question with a very long answer. For another time.”</p><p>“Why not this t一 Oh.”</p><p>There were people approaching them, purposefully, and clearly meaning to stop and talk, and not just pass by and wave, like the others did. These were the people she saw him with on his very first day out, the people that he’d been with ever since, in the evenings. Aoife's never met them. </p><p>She straightened her back mechanically, watching him stand up, shake hands and exchange pecks with them. Then he introduced her to each and every one of the seven, and they all bowed and gave her kisses, too, but her heart was pounding into her ears and devocalizing all the names, so she barely memorized any. They were all fisherfolk. </p><p>“Here’s what we’re thinking,” said one man to Florion. “Tomorrow, at your place. Right after we disembark. Does that sound good? We’ll bring the fuel. Both kinds.” </p><p>Florion gave her a quick look and nearly stumbled through his response. “I’ll… Uhm. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”</p><p>“Oh,” said the man, and gave her a <em> look </em> too, and smiled. “You do that, lad.”</p><p>There was another exchange of handshakes and pecks and bows, and they turned to leave without further ceremony. Except for one woman, who pressed her hand to her heart while looking at Aoife, and then blew her a kiss. </p><p>“What… Why did she do that?” Aoife asked, flabbergasted, when they were gone. </p><p>“Imogen is sort of. Your fan.”</p><p>“My… what?”</p><p>He chuckled. </p><p>“She likes your singing. And, frankly, why wouldn’t she. You’re great. And she is very sentimental.”</p><p>Her supposedly very sentimental fan was at least twice as wide as her, about two heads taller, with bulging muscles, enormous hands, and smelling faintly of fish oil. </p><p>“Right. I do deal in <em> sentimental</em>, after all.”</p><p>“Don’t sell yourself short.”</p><p>Aoife looked at him. His smile was bright, and wide, and playful, and he was that other Florion, the cheerful, easy-going kind, not the serious, pensive one he’d been for these last two hours. She liked both, but maybe, just maybe, had a preference for this one now.</p><p>“Why did you decide to stay, Florion?” she inquired, sitting back down and dragging him with her by the hand. </p><p>He gave her a short smirk. “So that’s what’s been eating at you, huh.”</p><p>“Eating at me?”</p><p>“Come now, Aoife. Believe it or not, I am quite observant.”</p><p><em> And I am an open book, after all. </em>At least according to the Temple sisters. </p><p>“And it’s another question with a long answer. But if I’m to be brief. I like it here. I really do. And I rather think this decision has been in the works for years. I just haven’t realised it.”</p><p>To her, Rheske was paradise. But she’d thought that there were other places in his people’s domain, better places. Now, she wasn’t so sure. </p><p>“Is Rheske really the best town there is?”</p><p>“It might be. I used to think so when I was a child, and I think so now. For a multitude of reasons.” He took her hand, and he kissed the underside of her palm, and there was a not-so-subtle undertone in this kiss that sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t trust the undertone, the kiss, or how happy she was. She hated herself for not trusting.  </p><p>“But what about your house in Iquinous, your father’s business, your possessions, your friends?”</p><p>He smiled again, and properly this time. It wasn’t a crooked, mirthless smirk from a minute ago. O how she loved that smile. “In order. It’s just a room in the attic, above the shop. Handled and will do fine without me. With me, mostly. At sea.”</p><p>“At sea,” she echoed. “Are you saying you only have one friend?”</p><p>“Only one close friend, yes.”</p><p>“That’s… Rather unusual for an aldamaari.”</p><p>His brow furrowed again. She felt like he would say outright that he <em> is </em> unusual, but he didn’t.</p><p>Instead he said, “Ouhri is a handful.” Whatever that meant. </p><p>“So… Do dreamers have special...” she realised she didn’t know the word for “privilege” or, even, if this word existed in his language. “Do you get some special perks here?”</p><p>That word, she did know. She hoped it was the right one. Gardening where there was the most shade in Temple grounds, that was a perk of starting earlier than everyone else. Sleeping late on Worship day, that was its perk, as well as the delicious custard buns. </p><p>But he said, “No. Maybe.” He seemed unsure. </p><p>“Maybe?”</p><p>“If you count the house.”</p><p>“The house.”</p><p>He told her about it, and she immediately knew the one. It stood up top, almost right below the Observation deck, and once, over a year ago, she wondered in passing who could live in such an enormous dwelling. Turns out it was just Florion now, all alone inside this huge behemoth. His tale of what happened there come fall wasn’t grim, but it did paint a grim picture in her mind, nevertheless. All of the dreamers, gathering in the same place for a few days, along with their loved ones, with a parting looming over them. She imagined humans would spend these days crying. The aldamaari would, and probably did, throw a three-day bender. </p><p>“So when the fishermen said ‘your place’, did they mean <em> that</em>?”</p><p>“Yes. There’s a gazebo on the roof, and almost the entire basement is a bathhouse, so it’s a good place for… Revelry.”</p><p>“You have your own bathhouse?!”</p><p>“In a manner of speaking.”</p><p>“Then why did you come to the one at the Temple?”</p><p>He looked at her, tilting his head slightly, and smiled a delicious little smile, and she felt so stupid for asking. </p><p>“You’ve sought me out in there, on purpose,” Aoife breathed out. </p><p>He nodded almost imperceptibly, more with his eyelashes than his chin. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p><em> Because he wanted to see you naked, you slut. </em>Shut up and die. </p><p>Florion moved in closer. His eyes were dark, and not for the lack of light around. </p><p>“Needed to touch your bare skin. To know.”</p><p>The implications all but spilled over her like a bucket of cold water. </p><p>“And so you did.” </p><p>After all, they did promise to tell each other everything, as long as there were no stupid oaths to impede that promise.</p><p>“Just so,” he said. “Forgive me. But I did learn a lot.”</p><p>Yet closer, leaning down to her. </p><p>It would have been playful and flirtatious if her voice wasn’t so hoarse when she whispered, “What have you learned?” </p><p>“I learned,” he said, pressing his forehead into hers, and his hair dropped to both sides of her face, hiding it from the outside world like a veil, “that you crave to be touched by me. Tasted by my mouth. That you want me inside of you.”</p><p>Breath rushed out of her. </p><p>“So tell me. Was it hubris on my part?” </p><p>
  <em> Kiss me kiss me kiss me </em>
</p><p>He didn’t, and she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think, and the moment flowed, unbroken. Their conversation about dreams and memories, moonlight towers and dead parents, the past and its coils, so serious, so thorough and full-dress, lay dead on the ground. </p><p>Aoife didn’t answer his question, because it wasn’t one. He knew the answer already, and he knew it so well, and she loved that he knew. Instead she swallowed and asked, “Your place. Do you want to take me there right now?”</p><p>“Dying to.”</p><p>They rushed uphill through the streets that were nearly empty, bathed in an eerie glow of faintly burning lamps. A buzzing insect brushed past her ear, and she shivered. </p><p>Somehow It felt like a passing reminder. Of humans, judgemental, buzzing, stinging creatures with their million rules and prejudices, and their mendacious prudence hiding horrors underneath. Their demands of chastity, that were really demands of ownership. Their love that somehow turned impure and worthy of discarding when there was sex involved. </p><p>She wanted to break each and every one of those rules. She wanted to break free. But most of all, she wanted Florion.  </p><p>It all still felt so very wrong. <em> You whore. </em></p><p>But in the complete, blind darkness of the hallway, he kissed her, pinning her against a wall, and made everything feel right again. </p><p>Her feet weren’t touching the floor for a while, and when he finally let her down, his hand immediately moved from her waist to the laces of her trousers, and undid them, and glided down. She would have helped him if she wasn’t shaking so much. And then he slid his finger in, because he was hungry and felt that she was, too, and it shouldn’t have been painful, she was so wet for him already, after all... But it was. Aoife whinged and recoiled, pushing him slightly away. </p><p>“Hurts?”</p><p>She nodded, frowning and not looking up at him. </p><p>He pulled her into an embrace. </p><p>“Then I won’t do it again tonight.”</p><p>She whimpered, in clear disappointment this time, and he chuckled at it.</p><p>“Just muscle pain,” he assured her. “It will pass soon.”</p><p>It’s not that the night seemed ruined, but it really, really wasn’t how Aoife wanted it to go. </p><p>“What now?” Again, she felt so stupid for asking, and felt hatred for herself rise to her throat immediately after she did. </p><p>“Now,” Florion said, bringing her palm to his lips and kissing it, “we get some light in here. So you can see the house in all of its horrible, vast emptiness and desolation. And then I’ll get the boiler running. And we’ll go soak for a while, like seals in the sun.”</p><p>That sounded really nice. </p><p>He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her again. </p><p>“And then,” he said, when he was done kissing her, “maybe I’ll talk you into singing.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Literal Burns, Social Anxiety</p><p> </p><p>Would you do me a huge favour and leave a comment? Even if it's just "I don't hate this", I'd still appreciate it greatly.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Green guy decides to stay in town because of pickled olives and other things.<br/>*Immigrant girl dead set on stopping being a virgin, but vaginal muscles do not cooperate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “They only burn hardwood in stone ovens to bake their bread. Other than that, in their hearths and the stoves they cook upon, and to heat the water for washing, they use alchemical stones that burn for hours and emit no smell and very little smoke. To stop vermin from raiding their grain and fruit, they have domesticated, perhaps also by magic, predators with sharp claws and teeth. These predators are very dangerous and vicious, albeit small. Upon accidentally stepping on one of these predator’s bushy tails, my surviving shipmate received deep cuts to his calves. Our interpreters insisted the cuts needed to be washed with spirits, and did not back down despite the fact that the process caused further pain to my companion. Mayhaps, it was ritualistic in nature. However, he then received a poultice to rub into his wounds, and noted that the pain was alleviated almost immediately upon applying it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Just like a kitten who, before settling in, thoroughly explores the space he’d just been introduced to, she went on to snoop around the house alone. </p><p>Much of it smelled unused and deserted, and looked the part. The ground floor had a kitchen and dining hall so big echoes sounded in it whenever she made the slightest of sounds, and the dim lamp Aoife had with her could not illuminate even the nearest corner. There was also a sitting room, and this one had been recently in use, if only slightly. One of the couches stood uncovered, the fireplace had flamestone shards in it, the nearest window was cracked open. The tea table held a bowl of lavender potpourri but it was flat, with barely any fragrance left to it.  An imposing looking harpsichord stood in the middle, shut and unused, and she furrowed her brow and remembered Drifeo. “Five around town”. Was that just a coincidence? Or was everyone a matchmaker?</p><p>The floors above were carbon copies of each other: a staircase, a hallway, a sharp turn into a long corridor with multiple rooms on each side. Some of those were small, some spacious, each held a bed and other furniture, all undefined under grey-white sheets. Behind each door it smelled strongly of dust, and the air was stuffy. She found two that weren’t bedrooms or bathrooms: one cold, with window open, and there was nothing there but a table that held a few glass flasks reminding her of tales of alchemy and another, with a thin rug, an odd looking stand that resembled a chair but also didn’t, and metal weights strewn across the floor around it. The last one smelled faintly of Florion’s sweat, and she stayed in it a while, breathing deeply.   </p><p>Then Aoife came upon a washroom painted in cheerful colors, with flowers, cubs, and tiny frilly birds. There was a rainbow-colored shelf with rainbow-colored towels on it. She lingered in the doorway for a few seconds, barely believing her eyes. There stood three flush toilets in a row, with no dividers between them. The words “indecent”, “privacy” and “why” all came and went in quick succession. Then she saw a stack of books, as dusty as most of this house was, on a small table near the bidet, and went to flip through them. They were all children’s books, from those that taught the alphabet to long morality tales. The toilets worked just fine and fit her better than the normal ones around town. They were the same size as the one in her cottage. </p><p>They come here with their families, she remembered. And then they say goodbye. Do they always fear they might not be coming back?</p><p>Florion’s room was on the top floor, she found and recognized it by his scent and by the charming clutter inside: it was the only one actively lived in. She went around the space, noticing, touching and inhaling. It was cozy and warm, with heavy velvet curtains over the windows. There was a row of seedlings in tiny pots on each windowsill. One of them clearly sage, the others Aoife couldn’t identify without daylight. The wardrobe stood open, with a solitary sock thrown over the mirror door. There was a desk piled high with books, papers and things that had no business sitting on desks, like a hairbrush and a shirt. The four-poster bed, an enormous thing that occupied, probably, a third of the room, was made, but carelessly and evidently only one side of it had been slept in, the one closest to the door. She placed the lamp on the bedside table, moving a half empty glass of water and a book, and sat on the edge of the mattress, and reached for a pillow, and buried her face in it for some time. </p><p>She thought, “I’m going to let him make love to me on this bed”, and shuddered at her own daring, and at her arousal when her gaze brushed past the desk once more, with the very same thought in her head. </p><p>On the way back to the basement Aiofe couldn’t resist dropping by the sitting room again and playing a short melody on the harpsichord. The instrument needed tuning and dusting, but it came out relatively fine. Maybe she would actually use this one instead if Florion allowed her, this way no one would hear her shameful attempts at the Temple. <em> No, really, was this a coincidence?..  </em></p><p>“So the old fellow finally gets some love,” she heard Florion’s voice and turned sharply to find him standing in the doorway, barefoot, naked to the waist, with his long hair strewn over his shoulders. He was even more beautiful in this dim light, and for a moment she felt like crying, because the most beautiful things always made her cry.  </p><p>“How一” she started, but her voice was hoarse with all the dust inhaled, so she had to cough it out. “How long since it’s been in use?”</p><p>“Over five years. There was a man before then, played it fanatically.” </p><p>“It needs some tuning. I hope I can find someone to help… What happened to him?”</p><p>“Adronion? Retired.”</p><p>The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t pinpoint it, because the man in front of her eclipsed all others, and his gaze made her slightly dizzy.</p><p>For a moment she thought he’d ask her to play and sing for him, and he even reached out his hand and opened his mouth but then didn’t say it. She was grateful for it. She needed all kinds of time. Some toddlers probably had better skill with harpsichord than she did at this point. </p><p>Instead he said, “It’s yours to practice on, if you want. Whenever you want it.” </p><p>For this she was grateful, too, but then a thought crossed her mind. </p><p>“Wait, how did you一” She trailed away, unsure if this was the right thing to ask. </p><p>He guessed the rest and said, “The High Priestess.”</p><p>
  <em> Is everyone a matchmaker?..  </em>
</p><p>Florion offered her his hand, and she took it. </p><p>There was a pantry in the basement, and a wine cellar piled high with bottles, but most of it was occupied by the bathhouse. It had all the proper trappings, and then some, all marble and high ceiling and columns and fretwork. Looking around, she concluded that even the human king had never seen much less owned, anything so beautiful, and the thought made her feel an odd sort of triumphant evil mirth. Good. No human king deserved this.</p><p><em> Neither do you. </em>Shut up. </p><p>She threw her shoes and stockings off and dipped her toe into the pool. The water was cold. </p><p>“Come on,” Florion called from across it, and his voice echoed. “Leave it, it’s too big.”</p><p>“I’d say,” Aoife muttered. </p><p>He passed the steam room that stood open and cold, and others; And into the one on the furthest side of the hall, that hid in its center a ridiculously big bath that could easily fit four people if not more. </p><p>“Usually it’s the children’s pool,” he clarified. “Considering the circumstances, ours for now.”</p><p>Aoife hesitated. </p><p>“Am I overstepping some bounds?” he asked softly, approaching her and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “If so, I’m sorry. You don’t have to一”</p><p>“I want to,” she interrupted. “But I don’t… I don’t even have my bathing things with me, or a toothbrush or一”</p><p>Florion smiled mostly with his eyes and opened the door in the wall, to the previously unnoticed built-in wardrobe. She peeked inside. There were stacks of sheets, and towels, and rows of bathrobes. Bottles of some unknown liquids, and slabs of soap, and luffas, and a whole bouquet of toothbrushes made of what seemed like lacquered purplewood and gebha bristles. And, also, ducks. A lot of brightly colored toy ducks. </p><p>“So. Perks,” she said. </p><p>“I guess,” he agreed. “But would you believe me if I told you I only need one of each.”</p><p>“Even the ducks?”</p><p>He chuckled. “Even the ducks.”</p><p>What did they do. What in the everliving hell did they do to be treated as kings. The amount of bottles in the cellar was enough to get the whole city blind drunk. <em> What were the dreamers dreaming for? </em> It’s not that she minded all of this or the fact that she was now part of it all, if only by proxy. But all the opulence seemed so bizarre. The aldamaari usually shunned all but bare necessities. Not because they couldn’t get more. But because they didn’t want more. </p><p>And then she thought, <em> I am so human. </em>Because it wasn’t opulence or luxury, not really. It was an attempt to give someone a home away from home, if only for a few days. Someone who would then be out of it all for months. It oddly reminded her of the grim human tradition of last favour granted to those condemned to execution. It was the second time in the last hour when she wondered if ever there was a risk of a dreamer not waking up at all. </p><p>She shivered at the idea and at the memories of humans, and tried her best to sweep them aside. He helped. Because the next moment Florion asked, “May I undress you?” </p><p>Being perfectly capable of doing it herself she, nevertheless, nodded. She wanted him to. Aoife wanted all kinds of things from him, and being cared for by him was quite high on the list.  </p><p>Florion actually knelt to slowly unbutton her robe. </p><p>She still remembered the way he dried and dressed her yesterday, with so much tenderness and care that at some point Aoife felt like her heart would explode. Maybe one day she’d be able to actually believe that she deserved this. </p><p>He slid the robe off her shoulders with the tips of his forefingers, and for a moment she was sharply reminded of the way his dream appendages rid her of clothes on the first night, in the very same manner. It hurt less now, how he did not remember. They were here, after all. They were together. This she almost believed already. </p><p>Next he yanked the undershirt out of her trousers and kissed her belly, and she shivered so much he had to steady her with an arm around her hips. He kissed the same spot again, and then kissed every subsequent patch of skin revealed while he was lifting her shirt up, excruciatingly slowly.   </p><p>None of it, none of what he was doing to her, was familiar and yet she felt that she’d done it, that it’s been done to her, by him, so many times before. <em> Like home. </em>Aoife desperately wanted to call out for a god when Florion caught one of her bared nipples in his mouth, but she didn’t believe in any gods so she called his name instead.</p><p>Her trousers he unceremoniously pulled down in a single motion along with the underwear, and she stepped out of it, and pushed it aside with her feet. He helped her into the bath and followed her, right after ridding himself of his remaining clothes almost convulsively. </p><p>Hands firm on her shoulders, he turned her to face her back and pushed Aoife’s hair to the side to touch and kiss her neck, and she tilted her head further, instinctively, trusting, to give him better access. It was getting harder to breathe. It was getting impossible to keep her eyes open.  </p><p>“Aoife.” </p><p>Her name on his lips sounded like a caress, and she leaned back into it and into his waiting arms, closing the remaining inches between them in one motion. He whispered, “Do you feel what you do to me?”</p><p>She thought, dully, “but I didn’t do anything.” And right after, her stupid useless mind presented her with half a dozen other things that didn’t matter and made everything worse like, “kids use this, what are we doing” and “no, what am I doing” and “are we going to get any actual bathing done,” and such, all of it in quick succession, each thought rushing to climb on top of the other. But then his arms enveloped her and pressed her close, and pulled both of them down, deeper into the water, and she did<em> feel it</em>. He was so hard against her back that she instinctively rubbed against him to feel the pressure, and heard him rumble in return. </p><p>“Aoife...” he repeated in a whisper, fingers squeezing her shoulders and then finding her neck again, pressing in, circling and, one knot at a time, she felt herself slowly relax.  </p><p>He desired her. Why was this so hard to believe that someone could want her while at the same time not wishing her harm? Even after yesterday? Why was it so impossible to trust and to let go, and to enjoy it, when at least a part of her clearly wanted to? </p><p>She turned to face him, his arm still encircling her, and drew even closer, nearly pushing him backwards. With his head on the edge, and him stretching out his legs, and her climbing on top of him, their faces were level now, and Aoife kissed him a split second before her treacherous mind told her to stop. Florion kissed her back, groaning, tongue thrusting deep, and for a few moments, they all but melted into each other.  </p><p>That little voice inside her head could rage all it wanted, there was no turning back now. It nearly drove her mad yesterday, but today, she wouldn’t let it make another peep. Even if they'd be hell to pay later.</p><p>They did get some actual bathing done after all, miraculously, in between all of the touching, and kissing, and cupping, and circling, and teasing, and tracing, and stroking, and biting nearly bloody. She curled her fingers tight as he fucked her hand and attempted, with moderate success, to repeat the motions she’d seen yesterday. She’d learn to do it better, Aoife thought, although it already felt enough as she watched him moan and scrape her shoulders, mouth open, lidded eyes heavy and dark. </p><p>“Please, stay,” he whispered as he came undone. “Stay with me, be with me, Aoife, please.” </p><p>He was different today, with yet another facet to him. Not possessive and bestial like he was last night but so very vulnerable, so open, so tender. So. Lonely without her. </p><p>How was this possible. </p><p>She said, “I will,” and meant it. She couldn’t claim to truly know him, but desperately wanted to learn. </p><p>And then 一 she wasn’t quite sure how it happened, what with her eyes closed, and him carrying her, and their mouths not leaving each other for a second 一 she was in his bed, on his sheets, and the lamp flickered and went out just when he was closing the door. </p><p>
  <em> Come to me. </em>
</p><p>Florion’s hands found her and pulled her close, skin to skin, and after, breath to breath. The lack of light made everything different. The edges of reality shimmered and blurred. And with hands gliding up over her body, with his hair strewn across her thighs, and with touches of his tongue as gentle as rose petals, otherworldly in the darkness, he made her sing, just like he’d promised. </p><p>~*~</p><p>He woke up to dawn creeping in and laid in silence, with Aoife sprawled across him, her head and hand on his chest. Her auburn red hair was fire in the early sunlight. She fell asleep in his arms and, right on the spot, he decided that this was the best feeling that could ever exist. Florion didn’t want to get up, he’d stay like this forever if he could. But his bladder’s gotten the best of him in the end. He did, however, make an honest effort not to disturb her sleep and succeeded in disentangling himself. She whimpered but didn’t wake up. Pulling up the blanket to cover her shoulders, he barely managed to resist the urge to touch and kiss her warm cheek. Her skin smelled so good. </p><p>But she needed rest. Aoife was a troubled sleeper, he’d learned. While he lay awake cradling her, at times she mewled, shook her head, brought her palms to her face, and made small noises of protest, although unmistakably asleep. There was something chasing, plaguing, overtaking her in dreams. And he had reason to believe it continued throughout the night. He wondered if she knew, if she remembered. And if she did, how much did those nightmares poison her waking hours. </p><p>In the mirror Florion marveled at all the bitemarks and hickeys adorning his upper body. Something happened to her last night. She let go of her fear and shame, if only for an hour, and took charge. And it, in turn, made him feel and act vulnerable. He wasn’t yet sure what exactly he thought of this unconscious reaction of his. But after… Her sweet, sweet moans still sounded in his head. His cock twitched at the memories. Florion looked down and raised one eyebrow at it in mocking disdain. </p><p>After gathering their clothes around the bathhouse, he went to the kitchen and made a pot of his usual tea with lavender, mint, rosemary and honey, and sipped some while staring out the window onto the unweeded garden. In his mind’s eye he could see them together out there, planting things that grow. It was an unusual fantasy as fantasies go, and way too chaste compared to others he’d had of Aoife the night before this one, but he found it very comforting. </p><p>He brought some tea up for her and stood in the doorway, cradling the mug in his palms. Aoife blinked and looked at him. </p><p>Sitting on the edge of the bed, Florion said, “Hi.” Because all the other things he craved to say might have spooked her, with morning having likely plunged her recent memories into ice cold water. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her to stay, and to keep on staying. </p><p>She answered, “Hi.” And smiled timidly, accepting the mug so very carefully from his hands, and there was a subtle change in her gaze when she did. He didn’t think he’d interpret it properly but for a moment it looked a lot like disbelief. </p><p>He also wanted to give her space that he suspected she needed, but couldn’t take his eyes off her. His brethren usually considered humans bizarre looking. Yet he somehow found everything about her harmonious, natural and familiar. Aoife was autumn come alive where he was spring, and there was nothing bizarre about it. He realised he wasn’t only looking but slowly, unconsciously reaching for her shoulder, while she sipped her tea.</p><p>“Oh, wow, this is so good,” she said with such enthusiasm and sincerity that it made Florion chuckle, and then she turned and caught him in the act of looking and of reaching. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t stare. But you’re so beautiful.” </p><p>“So are you,” Aoife said in a small voice, and his heart did that odd thing where it was trying to punch his throat out. </p><p>She took another sip, smacked her lips, put the mug on the table to her side of the bed <em> her side of the bed, dear fucking gods, please</em>, emerged from under the covers, warm, naked, and lovely, and reached for him in turn, and put her arms around his neck, clinging to his back. He put his hands over hers and sat, unmoving, head leaning into hers, eyes closed. A week ago he wouldn’t have thought he needed this. Now he barely knew how he was surviving without it all this time. </p><p>She said, “Thank you,” and nuzzled his cheek. He didn’t know why she was thanking him when it should have been the other way around.  </p><p>“Aoife...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He breathed against her wrist and kissed it gently. </p><p>They slept in and didn’t have much time left. But he wanted to turn, and he wanted to embrace her properly, and touch her skin with his mouth, and have some of her warmth spill into it, and then press on her shoulders and lay her back down, and― Florion reined himself in, with some effort. </p><p>“Will I see you tonight?”</p><p>She said, “Yes.”</p><p>He closed his eyes and felt like he was tasting that sweet little word on his tongue. </p><p>She let go of him slowly, uncoiling, her hands sliding down his shoulders over his shirt.   </p><p>Then he said, “Hold on, I’ll get your clothes,” and went to bring them, and a smile was creeping onto his face all along the way. </p><p>Quarter of an hour later he did embrace her, next to her little cottage, and then let go, unwillingly, and went down the road, turning every few steps to see if she was still looking at him. She was.  </p><p>The night could not come soon enough.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Mahri all but pounced on her when Aoife appeared in the dormitory. “Where have you been yesterday? We missed you at the bathhouse.”</p><p>Just before Aoife was about to answer, bracing herself for the onslaught of questions and squeals that might follow, Maeve appeared from behind her, and said, “Isn’t it obvious? She was with her dreamer.” And immediately left for the garden.</p><p>This unnerved Aoife greatly. It wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks when Maeve has been acting cold with her, or inserted some odd jab-like phrase into her conversations with others, or avoided her completely. In fact, lately they didn’t spend much time together aside from the service, and it wasn’t a welcome change.  </p><p>“Why is she like that?” Aoife asked Mahri. </p><p>The latter blew a small affectionate raspberry against her cheek and said, “Like what? A goose? I don’t know. Her initiation is coming, maybe she’s on edge. Who cares. Were you <em> really </em> with your dreamer?” </p><p>“Look,” Aoife pursed her lips. “I promise I will tell you about it, but this is one straw too much. Mind if I go talk to her first?”</p><p>Mahri looked disappointed, but, nevertheless, said, “Sure.”</p><p>Aoife didn’t really know how to begin the conversation properly when she approached Maeve in the garden, so she stumbled through her questions. </p><p>“Listen, uhm. You’re acting odd and. Did I do something wrong? Have I offended you?”</p><p>Maeve said, “No,” while digging the ground very aggressively. Aoife didn’t back down and stood, arms crossed, waiting for the real answer. Maeve then leaned on the shovel and added, “Yes. Maybe. Your dreamer. What’s with you two?”</p><p>Did Maeve fancy him? Was she jealous? This really wasn’t an aldamaari thing though, jealousy. </p><p>“I guess we’re...” what’s with them two, indeed. She didn’t really know where it was going. She didn’t really allow herself to care about it. Only about being with him, one day and night at a time. “Seeing each other?” she finished carefully. </p><p>“Well you didn’t offend me,” Maeve said. “But this does.”</p><p>Aoife’s heart banged painfully. </p><p>“Is this because I’m a human?”</p><p>Maeve was always accepting of her and never once let her think that she was an outsider. But maybe her tolerance only extended to a certain point. Of course, this also wasn’t a thing Aoife ever noticed in the aldamaari, this was a human thing: to be tolerant only to a degree, to pretend, just for show. But who knows what lay buried deep inside. </p><p>“No,” Maeve said resolutely. “It’s because he’s a dreamer.”</p><p>“Explain?”</p><p>Maeve threw the shovel violently towards the shed, and it banged against the wall and fell down. </p><p>“They’re no good.”</p><p>“Explain more?” Aoife scowled. </p><p>“I saw you, you know? Last Alda day. He looked like a bloodthirsty predator, watching you from the shadows. And yesterday, in the corner of the dining hall. When he fed you with his fingers, and you held your hands behind your back. Did he tell you to do that? Did he give you a command, and you followed blindly, like a good pet? And at the square, too. And the way he looked at you, one would think you’re a dessert to be devoured, not a person. It was all fun and games when you were pining after him and bringing him snowdrops, and those two fools were teasing you. Now it’s gone too far. You cannot let it go any further. And I honestly thought you’d be smarter than this. But now I’m not so sure.”</p><p>This was, probably, the longest speech Maeve’s given her in the last few weeks. And in it hid the very first thing from her that could have been interpreted as an insult. Maeve barely looked like herself now. What she definitely did look like, was <em> angry</em>. </p><p>“Explain!” Aoife repeated louder, exasperated. “What am I supposed to do? Just walk away? It doesn’t work like this, Maeve.”</p><p>“Of course it does!”</p><p>“Not for humans!” Aoife nearly shouted, but then coughed and steadied herself. “I’m sorry. What do you mean by this? “No good”?”</p><p>“For example. Do you know that when they’re in the stone baths, they do not age?”</p><p>“What do you mean, they do not age?”</p><p>“Just that. And they altogether age slower. How old do you think that dreamer of yours is?”</p><p>“I don’t know…” Aoife always had trouble pinpointing the precise age of a particular aldamaari. She thought Florion looked around twenty-five. </p><p>“Well, why don’t you ask him?”</p><p>“I suppose I will but I don’t think it mat一”</p><p>Maeve went on without listening to her, without explaining how it was even possible for someone to stop aging in their sleep. </p><p>“And it’s not all there is. There’s a reason why this manchild has never had a serious relationship or many friends. I know he didn’t, he’s like a mole, always alone, always either under or hiding. Well. Not only because, in this case, he had a conscience which he somehow decided to discard when he met you… Why is that, anyway? Why would you do that to someone if you truly cared? But also… Just think about it. For three months, or five if you count the journey for some, you completely drop out of life. It goes on, it keeps happening, but you’re not in it. You might witness your child being born, then leave, then return to said child learning to speak and crying at the mere sight of you because they don’t know you.”</p><p>As this long rant was unraveling she sounded more and more as if it was her personal issue. Way too much emotion put into every word. Aoife wondered if, perhaps, Maeve once tried going out with a dreamer and it didn’t work out. Even so, it was uncanny. Untypical. Bizarre. </p><p>“They’re infantile, they’re clueless, careless, self-centered and cruel. They always, always choose themselves and their craft first.” So it was a craft, huh. “I get why you would fall for one, I really do. Everyone worships them! They seem mysterious and charmingly aloof. But they’re really not charming. There’s not a single reason to give in when there’s imminent heartbreak on the horizon.” Oddly enough Maeve used the human word for “heartbreak”, her language’s equivalent not appearing dramatic enough to her, probably. “You’re human, you’ve told me yourself that it’s harder for you.” </p><p>“Maeve… Look. I mean no offence but it really sounds like it’s not about me at all.”</p><p>Aoife remembered, with bitterness, all those months Maeve had spent with her in the library, teaching her to speak, being so very patient with her, so calm, so dignified. Always smiling. She wasn’t any of those things now, neither was she smiling. </p><p>They’ve been together so often, up until a few weeks ago. How could Maeve let <em> this </em> come between them? </p><p>Maeve ignored her remark. </p><p>“You can’t even have children with him,” she said, not looking at Aoife. “And if you could, they’d hate him. And maybe, you as well.”</p><p>Aoife never thought that any aldamaari would be capable of hate. But they did have the word for it, after all… Maeve sat down on the ground, and she remained standing. It was easier this way, not having to keep her head up all the time just to look into Maeve’s eyes. </p><p>“I care about you.” Well, she had a very weird way of showing it lately. “I don’t want him to hurt you, and he will. Sooner or later. You said yourself you’re happy here, what if he leaves you heartbroken and you just一” she trailed off. </p><p>“I 'just' what?”</p><p>“I hear things, you know? Even if you wouldn’t tell me. Just last week when you thought that he didn’t want you. You were not yourself. So much crying. Just like my一” This time she stopped talking much more abruptly, having apparently said more than she was supposed to. </p><p>Ah, so there was something personal, then. </p><p>“Whatever you think of this, it’s not a reason for you to treat me as you did. I thought we were friends, but you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder for weeks. Is that really a good way to convey a message?”</p><p>Maeve shook her head, but didn’t offer an apology.</p><p>They remained in silence for a few moments. </p><p>“So you still want to go with him, even after what I’ve just told you?”</p><p>She wanted to “go with him” even when she thought they’d only have two weeks together. She was prepared to suffer heartbreak just for such a limited time. And now, with so many months ahead of them before next winter, she couldn’t even dare to think of walking away. </p><p>“I do,” she said. </p><p>“Are you sure you’re not just a novelty to him? That he’s not simply curious if it’s possible to split a tiny person in two using his cock? Or something of the sort?”</p><p><em> Finally, someone with real questions. </em>Die. Die, die, die. </p><p>Still, it was uncanny how many of her nasty inner voice’s jabs Maeve repeated nearly verbatim. </p><p>But for a few seconds Aoife closed her eyes and she remembered, in great detail, the way in which Florion said he’d do his best to never be the cause of her tears again. And the way he undressed her. The way he begged her to stay, to be with him, while in the midst of an orgasm. He seemed so vulnerable at that moment that the memory didn’t arouse her, but nearly made her tear up instead. And then she remembered his caresses: so selfless, so tender. The way he cradled her in his arms until she fell asleep. Why did he do that? He didn’t have to do that. There wasn’t anything for him in that, he could have used that time to sleep. The way she caught him looking at her when she was distracted, and his gaze was mesmerized, and a little sad, and wandering, as if he wanted to take in as much of her as he could. The way he sincerely admitted in the dream that he was lonely. The way she inexplicably guessed it from taking only one look at him, asleep in murky water. The way no other man she knew was so open about his feelings and desires.  </p><p>The way he told her he was staying, clearly implying that she was at least one of the reasons. Was he being selfish? She didn’t know. Maybe he was. But then again, what did it matter when she knew already, after so few days, that she wanted all that he could possibly give her, anyway. </p><p>“I don’t think it’s about curiosity. And I’m not tiny!” At this, Maeve chuckled, though mirthlessly. “Also he didn’t even try to… We haven’t… You know. What you said.”</p><p>“Have. Sex,” Maeve said with emphasis. “You haven’t?” She seemed perplexed. </p><p>“I mean. We did. Some stuff,” Aoife was going red again. She really didn’t want to discuss it with someone, be it Maeve, or Mahri, or anyone, really. But where the latter was all giggles and winks, the former spoke matter-of-factly. Like a healer or a mathematician. And it was worse. </p><p>“But you did not engage in penetrative sex,” Maeve said even louder, with even more emphasis. </p><p>Oh for the love of… Aoife sighed, saying nothing. </p><p>“What were you doing then? I saw him drag you away by the hand and I swear his pants were making crackling noises. And, just so you know, yesterday Carisme complained aloud that <em> some people </em> need a strong backhanded reminder to clean up their messes after they’d fucked in her workroom.” </p><p>For a few moments, Aoife lost the power of speech. She was pretty sure that her cheeks were now the color of a ripe beetroot. Also, did Maeve want a minute-by-minute retelling? Because she wasn’t getting that. At this rate she wasn’t getting anything. </p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“Mostly just kissing. Talking.”</p><p>This wasn’t entirely true, but Aoife really didn’t feel like going into greater detail. </p><p>“Kissing,” Maeve repeated, dully. Her anger seemed to be subsiding somewhat. At least she wasn’t raising her voice anymore. “Talking. And what, pray tell, were you talking about? About how he is so amazing and no one appreciates him, and all that crap? Because they do that. They love to complain. To talk about themselves for hours. They love attention, and sympathy, and praises, and…”</p><p>“Maeve, stop,” Aoife told her, tears inexplicably amassing in the corners of her eyes. “Please. I don’t know if you’re trying to dissuade me, or to convince yourself of something, or whatever it is. Stop.”</p><p>It sounded a lot like attempts to control her. Aoife recently found out that she very much enjoyed life without those. But it also certainly sounded like something painful that Maeve held on to. </p><p>Maybe it was all just hypothetical, all an exaggeration, or maybe… No, she guessed this wasn’t a “dating” issue. If anything, this was a family issue. Aoife took a wild guess, feeling like there was nothing left to lose. “Is one of your parents a dreamer?”</p><p>Maeve looked at her for a few long seconds, unblinking. </p><p>Finally she said, sounding defeated, “My grandfather. He went on breaking my grandma’s heart every year all over again until she died. She did not want any other man or woman. But he broke her, and he broke his children’s hearts. My mum doesn’t even talk to him anymore.” This was also a first. Aoife’s never heard of aldamaari having family trouble or, much less, not being on speaking terms with their family members. “He broke every single one that he could reach, because he never saw his occupation as a problem, and because he expected all of us to just. Cope. Maybe it could have worked out just fine if my nana was a dreamer as well, but she wasn’t. None of us was, only him.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” was all that Aoife could manage. She truly was. But she knew that there wasn’t anything to say to make the pain go away. She also still wondered wildly how it was possible. Hate, codependency, quarrels, heartbreak? In aldamaari? Did she truly not know a single thing about them in its entirety? Was she wrong about <em> everything </em>?</p><p>“Is he still alive then? Your grandfather. I take it you’re not speaking to him either.”</p><p>“He is, and I’m not. He lives in Beruza now anyway,” Maeve was poking the ground with her fingers and not looking at her. </p><p>Maybe it was the morning, because Aoife always felt more brainy in the mornings, or maybe it was because she'd heard that name yesterday, and couldn’t pinpoint it at the time, but now the explanation was almost at the tip of her tongue, and then一 </p><p>“Is his name, perchance, Adronion?”</p><p>Maeve threw her head up. </p><p>“Yes. Ugh. How did you know? Did your dreamer tell you something?”</p><p>Yes and no. Aoife sat on the ground next to her and reached for her hand. Maeve didn’t push her away although for a second it seemed like she wanted to. </p><p>“Would it make you feel better if I told you that some weavers suggested putting a copper pot on your grandfather’s head and banging it with a large stick?” She smiled but her thoughts were in complete disarray, with a “drat, drat, drat” repeating somewhere in the back of her mind. A dreamer. Not a writer. He didn’t write those tales. He’d dreamt them. He’d <em> brought </em> them. That’s what the weavers meant. Did the words appear on his skin? Just like those symbols on the others, including Florion? “Drat, I’m so stupid. I’m so. So. Stupid.” </p><p>Maeve said, “It would make me feel better, yes. Did he fuck one of them, make promises and then leave, or something?”</p><p>“No, they simply did not care for his tales. But they’re not really his, are they, Maeve?”</p><p>Maeve looked at her intently, saying nothing, but somehow Aoife was sure now.</p><p>Dreamers of knowledge. That’s what they were. That’s why people valued them and why, according to Maeve, they valued themselves to the point where it became unhealthy. She was mad at herself for not having realised it sooner. Sure, it was just a guess, but what else could the answer be? The main question remained: where did they take that knowledge (and seeds) from? Was it magic? Was it given to them by gods? Florion told her, you can’t create something out of nothing. He also said “don’t rush” was a clue. Is this why they would go under every winter but only bring a little, a handful at a time? Why, though? Why not rush? Why were they repeating this <em> stupid </em> phrase every day in every possible situation?! </p><p>It felt like everything was coming together so fast that her vision blurred. Lensi had brought her some new “miraculous” soap. She knew the place churning it out now. And the year before that, there were also new things. “Florion” meant “one of flowers” or “flowery”. And there were plants painted on his skin, plants in his dreams, plants in his home, seeds in his stone bath. He was a plant himself, in that realm of his! Did he give himself a new name to reflect his occupation? The way she gave herself a new name to sound a bit less human?</p><p>“It’s fine,” Aoife told her. “I know you’re not allowed to answer. And I swear I will not mention it again. Just tell me this. Did you lie when you said they were mages?”</p><p>Maeve exhaled sharply. </p><p>“The truth is I don’t know. Maybe they are. Maybe I will learn more after my initiation. Mahri still doesn't know a single thing. About anything, frankly. She will when she turns eighteen.”</p><p>Ah, so Mahri did not lie at all when Aoife asked her about the dreamers. </p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“We cannot talk about this,” Maeve reminded her. </p><p>Aoife said, “We’re not.” And it was true, because they really weren’t. “As for your fears. If I may say something.”</p><p>“Go on, then,” Maeve waved her hand. “Make your excuses.”</p><p>“Yes, this. Precisely this. Stop. Okay? Stop. Also could you <em> please </em> stop staring at us when we’re together? I know it’s fine for you, but It’s hard enough for me not to run and hide when I’m seen in public with a man, I really don’t need to think for each passing second that someone is watching me intently.”</p><p>“I’d rather you didn’t一”</p><p>“Not finished!” Aoife interrupted her. It’s not that she was angry at Maeve per se, more at herself and at the knowledge that now, even though she knew Maeve was wrong and had no business judging her like this and was, deep in her heart, well-meaning although misguided, the doubt would still be there, every time she would remember this conversation in the future. Until she killed the doubt. And killing it would take a lot of effort. So Maeve got the worst of it. “Secondly, I don’t need anyone’s pity. I didn’t say a thing to you last week, because I am perfectly capable of dealing with my grief on my own. It’s not my fault that Mahri likes to talk and play petty revenge. And thirdly, let me tell you something that I’ve never told anyone here. When my mum died, and when they sent me into the Convent, and when they shore my head and gave me my first beating for no reason at all, just because they needed me to be obedient, and threw me into a black cell to “repent” for my mother’s supposed carnal sins, that’s when I promised myself that if ever any happiness came my way again, I will enjoy it without question. I’ve had a lot of trouble following that promise but I think I’m learning. I thought you were helping me to learn. I’m not so sure anymore. But being with him, that’s helping me to learn right now. It doesn’t really matter if he leaves or breaks my heart because today, when I woke up in his bed, I was happy. Yesterday when he held me in his arms, I was happy. When I witnessed him wake up in the caverns, and he embraced me, I was the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life, if only for a minute, but I will take that minute with me to my grave. And when he asked me to put my hands behind my back yesterday, I was happy because I was the one to <em> choose </em> to do that, with no fear that I would get savagely beaten if I refused. Because this is what life is for me. This is what I am trying to learn here. From your people. To just be happy, one day, one little thing at a time. Can you maybe, just maybe, accept this and let me make my own mistakes?”</p><p>Maeve was silent for very long, and then she said, “Wow, your vocabulary is amazing. Did I do this?”</p><p>“We,” Aoife replied, “did it together.”</p><p>Maeve looked at the ground and then at her, and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>She was on the verge of tears. </p><p>“Okay. Thank you.”</p><p>It wasn’t a lot but it was enough. Frankly, Aoife still felt way too concussed by Maeve’s behaviour. It was just so uncanny, so out of the blue. But she’d hate to stay angry. </p><p>She wiped away a single tear crawling down Maeve’s cheek.</p><p>“It’s just really hard seeing this again. It’s hard watching from the sidelines.”</p><p>Then why watch? Why not turn away? Why intentionally cause yourself pain? <em> You’re aldamaari, Maeve.  </em></p><p>Aoife said, “Hard. Hate. Not speaking to each other. Angry. How come.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Maeve shook her head, sniffling. </p><p>“All these things. If someone feels bad, they go and get help. And then they don’t feel bad anymore. I’ve never seen so much as a lovers’ quarrel here. I’ve never seen aldamaari parents spanking their children. I’ve never seen anyone fight. Or hold a grudge.”</p><p>
  <em> I’ve never seen friends screaming at each other. </em>
</p><p>Maeve didn’t exactly give her a clean cut answer. </p><p>“It’s not like <em> he </em>is eager to talk to my mum, you know. Or any of us. I think maybe, if he only talked to us, if he wasn’t so proud, he could make it right. But dreamers… He… Is just different,” she said, and looked up and away, at the Mountain Mother, its blunt wide peak drowning in mist. In passing, Aoife remembered the dreamer at the docks, and how she behaved, and what Ouhrion said about her. She didn’t want to dwell on it for longer. </p><p>“We aren’t perfect, too, you know,” Maeve added. </p><p>Aoife still did not want to believe it to be true. </p><p>They got up, and they got to work, and stayed in silence that was now, for a change, relatively comfortable, and didn’t leave each other’s side for hours until Maeve suddenly got bitten on the neck by some insect. The bite, although not too painful, swelled considerably in a matter of minutes, and she rushed to the clinic to have it taken care of. So Mahri used this opportunity to tiptoe back in for the promised gossip, her patience clearly at an end. She used “taking you to lunch” as a pretense. However, all she got was, “I’m seeing him, and I’m happy. And before you ask again, yes, I was with him last night.” </p><p>“Huh,” Mahri said, her expression unexpectedly serious. “So you really just. Went for it, did you?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, you said humans do that thing where they can’t see each other and only exchange letters and they can’t even have sex for months or something. Or was it until they’re married? Either way, huge loss, if you ask me.”</p><p>This again? Why was everyone so interested in her sex life in particular?</p><p>Mahri continued and surprised her again, “But you just. Splash! Head first. Not like a human at all.” She smiled and reached for a bread roll but then, apparently worried that she'd said something offensive, stopped halfway with a slightly terrified look on her face. “Is that an okay thing to say?!” </p><p>Aoife passed the prettiest looking bread roll to her. “It is. And I guess you’re right. Not like a human at all...” </p><p>Mahri chewed up a piece and asked, “You’ll be careful though, right?”</p><p>Aoife responded, “I don’t know if I will. And that’s the beauty of it, I think.”</p><p>“Huh? I mean one of you should take godswattle with your meals. So you don’t get pregnant.”</p><p>With a great, heaving sigh, Aoife held back laughter and exasperation at the same time.</p><p>“Please. Don’t worry. I can’t have kids with him.” </p><p>Mahri’s eyes went wide. “How come? Is something… Are you sick? We can fix that, you know.”</p><p><em> Gaaaah!</em> was the only word in Aoife’s head. Still, having this conversation felt a thousand times better than the one she'd had with Maeve. </p><p>“We’re different species. One cannot have kids with different species. If you slept with a lion you wouldn’t get half-lion babies.”</p><p>“Oh. Well that’s too bad! I’d love me some half-lion babies!” </p><p>Ten thousand times better. Aoife turned and blew a raspberry under her collarbone. </p><p>It smelled of spring. An unmistakable scent of swelling plants, wet earth and fresh grass. It’s been one and a half months. No, it’s been two weeks. No, it’s been three days. “Splash! Head first.” Too many things squeezed into too little time. Was this allowed? </p><p>Maeve caught up with her. She looked healthy, her neck no longer swelled. Except, her eyes seemed puffy. </p><p>“I’ll leave you alone in a minute,” she announced loudly. “But I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. It was horrible what I did.”</p><p>Another apology really wasn’t necessary, and Aoife certainly would not have used the word <em> horrible </em>to describe the situation. Disagreeable, maybe. Unpleasant. Misguided? Honestly, Lideo calling her an outlander in the docks hurt way more than this, and Lideo didn’t seem the type to apologize even once. </p><p>She was already almost over her altercation with Maeve, despite knowing that finer details might return into her thoughts later. She didn’t need or want this apology, not now, because she was about to see Florion and did not want a reminder of those hurtful words. </p><p>“Don’t worry, Maeve. It’s fine.”</p><p>“But it’s really not.” Maeve grasped her hand and stopped her, and looked down into her eyes. Apparently, she’s been crying quite a lot. Aoife has never seen her like this. “I love you. And I shouldn’t have treated you this way. I don’t know what I was thinking. Will you forgive me?”</p><p>“Already forgiven. Are you feeling alright? Does it hurt?”</p><p>“Oh,” Maeve beamed at her and gave her kisses on both cheeks. “I am so happy to hear this. I’m alright. I’m fine. Just hungry. I’ll go eat something right this instant. I will see you in two days, if not before. Alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” Aoife muttered. She felt confused by this sharp turn in her behaviour, but guessed that maybe Maeve had enough time to think and to re-evaluate her position while in the infirmary. Besides, they’ve surely given her medicine that, along with dulling the pain, makes a person feel temporarily ecstatic. Those were quite popular among women every month, to counteract the numbing effects of opy milk.   </p><p>Stopping when seeing him from afar was a habit in the process of forming she only just noticed in herself. Flutter and warmth spreading through her; they felt so new and so welcome that she didn’t will her legs to go immediately, but stood and looked at him instead for a whole minute. His thoughtful expression as he scribbled something down in a notebook, a shadow of a smile when he lifted his head to nod at someone and wish them a good evening in return, the way he absentmindedly combed his hair back with his fingers. Aoife noticed the little details and catalogued them away, one by one. And at the same time, unfortunately, couldn’t help but evaluate the grim possibility. </p><p>
  <em> “Manchild.” </em>
</p><p>Was he a hundred years old? Was he cruel and clueless and selfish and all those other things Maeve, bitterly angry at her grandfather, said? Would he ever think of her as an “outlander”? Did he ever? </p><p>Florion lifted his head, and saw her, and a smile bloomed on his face. It was happy, and relieved, and then, a little mischievous. He took a few steps forward, and so did she. They met in the middle again, and this time, there were a lot of people around, but she reached up for him first. </p><p>“Missed you.”</p><p>Was this allowed?</p><p>He kissed her, he spun her around, and she laughed, but he still noticed.</p><p>“How’s your day?” he asked cautiously. “Did something happen?”</p><p>“I’m going to tell you, I think, but I have some questions first.”</p><p>“Of course,” he said, pocketing the notebook and the pencil. “Shoot.”</p><p>There were people everywhere. </p><p>“How old are you?”</p><p>For a moment, she hated herself for asking. What did it matter?! But she asked anyway, because her inner voice was nudging and poking at her.  </p><p>“How old am I?” he echoed, slightly perplexed, and slightly louder than she said it. </p><p>Everywhere. There were people passing right by them. There were people hearing them talk. And one of those people turned out to be a fisherman from yesterday, who intruded by saying merrily, “Ah yes, how old is our Florion indeed. His face looks eighteen, his hands look fifty, and he sounds like a sixty year old dock worker with a bad hangover.”</p><p>Most aldamaari despised privacy, after all. </p><p>“Good evening,” Florion said, almost imperceptibly grinding his teeth right after. The man snapped his fingers at him and winked. </p><p>“Talk later.”</p><p>Florion turned to her again. </p><p>“Sorry about that... Let's see... I’m twenty seven. Probably. With a slight adjustment.”</p><p>
  <em> Probably?! </em>
</p><p>“What do you mean, adjustment?” she blurted out.</p><p>“Let’s say I was indeed three when they found me. That was almost precisely twenty eight years ago. So, thirty one in all. Subtract from that approximately forty six months in which I didn’t age. Because we don’t age when we sleep.” He waved toward the mountain. “Thirteen months in one year. And, well.” Florion shrugged. </p><p>He just said it. He didn’t try to wriggle out of it, or lie. At least it didn’t look like he was lying. </p><p>And he noticed her reaction, too. </p><p>“Let me guess,” Florion said, sighing. “One of the Temple sisters told you we don’t age, and that I’m centuries old, or something of the sort.” </p><p>“You could say that.” Aoife felt guilty now. “You… I mean me… Could also say sorry. Sorry.”</p><p>He shook his head faintly. She looked down on the ground. </p><p>“Come now, it’s alright to be curious.”</p><p>“How is it possible? To not age when you sleep in there?” she asked, still not looking at him. </p><p>“I don’t really know. It just is what it is. I hear it took a while to notice at all.” He stroked her hair gently, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes for a moment. “But, regarding other myths. No, I don’t have retractable metal claws. No, I can’t fly on butterfly wings during full moon. No, I cannot turn into a bear. A tree, well, that’s a different story entirely.” Aoife lifted her head. He was smiling ear to ear. “And it’s a good one, or so I hear.”</p><p>He took her by the hand and led her away from passers-by. </p><p>“You don’t have a birthday,” she muttered. This was a little sad. Humans didn’t celebrate birthdays, it was considered a sin to celebrate yourself, but the aldamaari did, and there was a lot of good food, and drink, and dancing. Mahri loved birthdays to death. Her own, others’, organizing celebrations, all of it.   </p><p>Florion smiled again. “Birthdays are overrated. How old are you? And can <em> you </em> turn into a bear?”</p><p>“I’m twenty four. And I don’t think I can.” His humorous nonchalance made her bolder. Again. “Regarding other myths, no, I don’t eat babies. No, I don’t think humans came from the skies above and were granted rule over all land and its creatures.”</p><p>“Well you personally have rule over at least one creature,” Florion said and brought her wrist to his mouth to kiss it. She loved it so much when he did this. She’d never imagined it was possible to love a simple gesture so much. </p><p><em> Seriously? He sticks his tongue inside of you first and </em> <b> <em>then</em> </b> <em> he flirts with you? </em> Oh, do shut up. </p><p>But it was too late. </p><p>He bit his lower lip, and with it a playful smile. “I think making you blush is my new favourite pastime.”</p><p>Aoife hid her gaze. He took her by the chin and lifted it. “What else did she tell you?”</p><p>“Do you want to get some food, and then I’ll tell you?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>They got some food, and she told him. Shuffling the words around a bit, withholding what she might have guessed about the dreamers’ craft. He wasn’t smiling anymore. And they weren’t playing suggestive games. Aoife caught herself looking around the dining hall once or twice, to see if anyone was staring. </p><p>She knew this would happen, and still hated herself for letting it happen. </p><p>He noticed and said, “Don’t look. Keep your eyes on me.”</p><p>It got a little easier after he said it. </p><p>“Did you know him well? Was he really like that?”</p><p>“Not well, no. He kept to himself. He always came alone, which I found odd, but that’s about it. But, Aoife, what she told you. Hate to say it, but there’s a grain of truth to it.”</p><p>“Which part?”</p><p>Another painful pang in her chest. </p><p>“We <em> are </em> slightly different.”</p><p>“How different?”</p><p>Florion pushed what remained of his food around the plate for a second or two.</p><p>“I guess. We are less. Connected.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>He dropped the fork and combed his hair back with his fingers again. </p><p>“Less empathetic, I suppose. We are less… Just less.”</p><p>“But you’re not cruel, or infantile. Or incapable of love.”</p><p>“Infantile? I sure hope not, it would be most unfortunate. And I would know, my best friend is a big baby. Cruel? Probably not. Not up to me to judge. As for love,” he reached for her hand and cupped it in his palms, “I think I’m capable of it alright.”</p><p>The second time this day Aoife was at a loss for words, although this time, the reason wasn’t as unpleasant. She yearned to kiss him. It looked like he wanted to kiss her, too. But there was a table between them, unlike yesterday, and people around. </p><p>Suddenly, he let go of her hand and looked past her shoulder. She turned around. The fisherfolk were there, in the same tightly knit group, and they were waving and gesturing for him to come over. </p><p>He rose. “Hold on, I’ll go and tell them no. I’d rather just be with you.”</p><p>“Wait,” Aoife said, grabbing onto his sleeve. “Don’t. You should invite them over.”</p><p>Florion tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure about this? They’re quite… <em> Vivacious.</em>”</p><p>He then looked at her intently, and she wondered if he sensed the truth again. </p><p>She hated to lie, but how else would she explain what she really wanted out of this situation, if not with a lie? And that was, to have him surrounded by people who weren’t her, to see him interact with others at length, to listen to him talk to them. Aoife also hated the fact that she still felt the need for it. Why was it so hard to simply trust? Anger stirred in her, and she wasn’t sure if it was the residual irritation caused by Maeve’s words, or, once again, anger at herself for not being able to trust her instincts. The instincts that told her that Florion wasn’t a self-centered prick like Maeve’s grandfather, or rude and uncaring like Lideo allegedly was. Mixed in there was also a nasty little thought that her inner voice kept repeating, mimicking her mother for good measure, because that was, more or less, what her mother taught her once. “Men can act affectionate and kind, they can pretend, but only until they get into your smallclothes.”</p><p><em> Well, he already got there, and he’s still kind, </em> she told herself, or to her inner voice, or her mother. <em> And he’s not human. </em> That shut it up. But she still wanted to see, and hear, and couldn't help it.  </p><p>In the end, Aoife opted out of an explanation altogether. </p><p>She simply nodded and said, “I’m sure. I’ll still be with you, right?”</p><p>Florion went to talk to them, and came back, and bent down to glide his palm under her hair and whisper in her ear, “Now tell me the real reason, please.” </p><p>She looked up at him and blushed a guilty, ferocious red. He didn’t look angry, or disappointed, or hesitant. A little sad, maybe. Florion sat next to her on the bench and pulled her closer. </p><p>“What she told me. It’s gotten to me. It really did. I can’t shake it. I’m sorry,” she muttered. Of course he knew right away. And she did promise to tell him either the truth, or nothing at all. And so did he. </p><p>“Don’t be. I understand.”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>How was it possible that out of all the aldamaari men she could have laid her eyes upon, she chose this one, at first glance. <em> I do doubt, </em> he told her. No, he wasn’t <em> less. </em>But he was unmistakably different. In some ways he felt almost human. She wondered, too, if he was in her head somehow. </p><p>“Because you explained it to me. The beast that plagues you, he’s with you even in dreams.”</p><p>She shook her head, not knowing precisely if it was a gesture of disagreement, or fear, or dismissal. </p><p>“Look at me, Aoife. Look at me.”</p><p>She did. </p><p>“We’ll get there,” he said. “We will. If you need time, there shall be no judgement.”</p><p>Three days. Was this allowed? </p><p>“No. I want to be with you. Every minute. I’m sor一”</p><p>He interrupted her with a kiss and then he smiled and said, “They just asked if you’ll be singing for them.”</p><p>Oh well. She played herself. </p><p>“I will,” she said. “But it won’t be for them.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Friends Fighting, Stinging Insect, Multiple Insecurities</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Keys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Second best friend is projecting.<br/>*Green guy is not Wolverine :(<br/>*Green guy and Immigrant girl sully a kiddie pool and fall in love some more.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“We have further discerned that the food they consume does not include many meats at all, but instead they always eat as peasants do, consuming breads and grains and fruits and very many greens, the latter, no doubt, contributing to their ungodly color. They do, however, indulge in wines and spirits of various colors and tastes, and eat sticky confections made with what is called “karulo”. It is excreted by striped insects by ways of them gathering flower pollen. When attempting to catch one of the aforementioned insects, the younger of my companions was bitten by it, and the insect then died, which seemed to sadden our interpreters greatly. They must hold these insects as sacred.” </em>
</p><p>The Little Guy was watered. The bed, cold and made. The bag lay on the bed, with a changing of underclothes, slippers and fresh stockings folded next to it. Aoife stood over the bag holding a nightgown in one hand and a toothbrush in the other. It felt like an important step, to put them in there. </p><p>
  <em> “Will you stay with me tonight?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes.” </em>
</p><p>Three days. Some damnable three days was all it took. Yes, such were the aldamaari. They did not linger or doubt when it came to this, as well. She couldn’t help but think she’d be slaughtered if anyone at the Convent knew. But she’d die before she’d go back there. </p><p>Aoife closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled, and stuffed everything into the side pocket. Her lyre occupied most of the space, but she didn’t require much of the latter. </p><p>Walking to the dreamer house downwind, she heard it before she saw it. There was rowdiness come alive, reaching her from the roof. The windows on the first floor were lit. </p><p>She opened the front door and squinted at all the lamps burning in the hallway. At least half a dozen pairs of boots were lined up in it, all bulky, rough and salt stained. </p><p>She peeked into the sitting room. Someone was eliciting horrifying wounded sounds out of the harpsichord. There was a couple passionately kissing on the couch, paying no attention to that someone. Aoife jumped back from the doorway, but not before a picture of two screaming wrestling bears invaded her mind. </p><p>The roof, then. Dropping everything but the lyre (<em>I played myself, I’ll pay for it</em>) in Florion’s room, she went to look for a stairway leading up, and found it fairly soon, at the very end of the corridor, and then emerged, timidly, slowly, to see the roof lit by some portable oil lamps. There were two braziers, one of which burned in the middle of a wide glass gazebo, and the other smoked near it, with skewers planted over. The latter brazier held fragrant wood and not flamestone. There were people there, too, and more than seven, and they were drinking, and yelling, and laughing, and, likely, singing, although it didn’t sound like decent singing to her ears. More like additional yelling. Aoife tiptoed around the lamps, her gaze on Florion’s back. </p><p>“And I said,” one of the fisherwomen screamed, “that it was my duty!”</p><p>“So what did you do?” another asked. </p><p>“I jumped in and I wrestled my harpoon from its teeth with my bare hands, of course!” the woman finished, and everyone laughed. Everyone, except for Florion, who shook his head, and asked something in a quiet voice.  </p><p>“Well I’m here, aren’t I!” The woman spread her massive arms. </p><p>The next voice that sounded froze Aoife in her tracks. “Look who’s here! Hello, little songstress. We’ve missed you.” She turned to see the one called Imogen beaming down at her. Florion turned, and rose, and came over, and braided his fingers with hers. She didn’t feel like looking at the others. </p><p>
  <em> I played myself.  </em>
</p><p>Someone shook her hand, a woman gave her a peck on the cheek, another, a quick hug. Aoife felt petrified. These folks were, probably, bigger than the caretakers. Florion did seem <em> average </em>among them indeed. She stuffed the bag under the bench inside the gazebo. All eyes were on her. She sat down, feeling uneasy. </p><p>
  <em> What was the human expression? Dug my own grave? </em>
</p><p>“Good evening,” Aoife squealed. </p><p>Florion put his arm around her. It didn’t feel like a possessive gesture, but a protective one. </p><p>A glass of wine was plunged into Aoife’s hand. She muttered a thank you, but didn’t look up to see who gave it to her. </p><p>“Is that your instrument there, perchance?” Imogen asked, her eyes and voice full of hope. </p><p>She nodded. </p><p>“Remember what we talked about mere minutes ago?” Florion said to Imogen. She made a face. </p><p>“Ach, alright, alright. I’ll leave your bride alone then. Maybe later.”</p><p>His… bride? </p><p>
  <em> Merely three days, you damnable slut.  </em>
</p><p>The rowdy conversation continued as if her appearance hadn't interrupted it. Aoife didn’t listen. She drank some wine. It tasted sweet, and sour, and familiar. She didn’t know what it was made of, but it was really good, reminding her of summer heat for some reason. </p><p>“What,” she whispered, turning to Florion, “were you talking about minutes ago?”</p><p>He squeezed her shoulder and let go. </p><p>“I politely asked them not to bother you with requests or questions unless you offer first. You’re not a walking attraction, after all. Forgive them. They can be quite...”</p><p>“Vivacious,” she finished, choking on gratitude. </p><p>
  <em> Was it “cut off your own nose to spite your face”? </em>
</p><p>“Just so,” he said. He had a glass in his hand as well now, but wasn’t drinking. </p><p>“What is this thing?”</p><p>“Watermelon wine.”</p><p>“They… You make wine out of watermelons?!” </p><p>Florion turned his head to look at her, and then moved a stray lock away from her face. She thought his gaze was filled with tenderness, and there was something else in it, something she couldn’t quite place. </p><p>He didn’t respond, but he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of her fingers. </p><p>She noticed that, upon her arrival, he withdrew from the conversation entirely. Unlike her, he didn’t look uncomfortable, and his pose was open and relaxed, one ankle on his knee, arm spread over the back of the bench. But he clearly now turned from participant into an observer. She felt guilty. And stupid. And thankful. </p><p>“Ah!” someone yelled, pointing at her. “The fruits of our labor!” and went to turn the skewers. </p><p>Another fisherman was telling a detailed story about allegedly venomous ladybugs on some island he sailed to last year with a different crew, from Nerupin, and passionately arguing that no, he wasn’t blind drunk throughout and hadn’t dreamt it. </p><p>“Don’t worry, he meant your buttons,” Florion said, nodding at her robe. Everyone at the Temple was wearing these. The buttons were big, white and polished to an almost iridescent shine, she always thought they were made of some kind of bone. “They’re elasma teeth.”</p><p>How big was a fish that had teeth that could be cut across like that? </p><p>“Elasma? You mean, breaded fillet elasma? Fish stew elasma?”</p><p>Florion chuckled. “Rissole elasma, sausages and sausage cases elasma, tools, buttons, hides,” He flicked a finger across his jerkin. “The shoes you’re wearing right now, and on and on it goes.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>She looked down at her shoes. They were also of a standard Temple uniform, meant for weather between seasons. They were soft, and warm, and comfortable, and she liked them very much. </p><p>Florion pulled her closer and kissed her temple. </p><p>“They’re big, and they’re vicious, and they are terrifying, and these men and women hunt them.” </p><p>“Wait, was I eating a behemoth all this time? I always assumed it was the size of a cod. Or herring.”</p><p>“Ah, but the fillet part does taste like cod. Red meat is a lot like salmon. The sides, like herring. Or so I hear. I might be confusing the parts. Elasma can weigh up to fifteen hundred pounds, and according to them,” Florion nodded at the fisherfolk, “each pound tastes differently.”</p><p>Fifteen hundred pounds?! </p><p>“So they,” Aoife looked around, appraising the guests, “kill those… Those… Ugh. Fifteen hundred?! Really?”</p><p>He grinned. “Really.”</p><p>“How do they do it? How do they kill them?”</p><p>Florion’s smile faded. “Do you really want to know?”</p><p>She really did. The aldamaari didn’t kill big game. At least, she’d never heard of them doing it. That would certainly require bloodthirst which they did not possess. Right? </p><p>Way too curious for her own good, Aoife nodded. </p><p>“According to them, as you might have just heard, with their bare hands. But no, not really. They set elaborate metal nets, and when an elasma is caught in one, the chain is brought higher and it’s harpooned in the head with a toxin that knocks it out, and pulled with chains onto the deck where they use a special descending blade that chops off its head quickly so the toxin doesn’t spread.”</p><p>He didn’t look disgusted by the description. In fact, he sounded more dull and monotone than the almanac on predators that nearly put the weavers to sleep. But then Florion suddenly downed his wine in one big gulp. “If they’re not hunted, they breed out of control, and gobble up everything there is. And they will eat you if you swim too far.”</p><p>“Isn’t the fact that they exist,” Aoife said, “simultaneously too good and too horrible to be true?”</p><p>The venomous-ladybugs-story fisherman interrupted them, yelling to Florion, “Well, <b>you</b> believe me, right?”</p><p>“I do,” Florion told him calmly. </p><p>“That settles it, then!” the fisherman said and clapped his hands, looking proud and assured. His opponents scratched their heads and pouted but then went to pour themselves more wine. </p><p>This was a weird thing to witness. They didn’t even try to argue. Two words from Florion were enough to settle an argument he wasn’t even a part of. </p><p>“Why are they...” she started, but then looked up at him. He was shaking his head weakly, unsmiling. “What, a sacred oath again or something?”</p><p>“In a manner of speaking,” Florion said, his gaze apologetic. She thought that maybe her theory from earlier today didn’t quite encompass all the grandeur and scope. She’d have to dwell on it a lot longer. “To answer your question. Yes. I think it is simultaneously too good and too awful to be true. And so do they. Which is why there is elaborate mythology surrounding elasma.”</p><p>“For example?”</p><p>“Do you know the song that’s called “Gift of the Heavens”?”</p><p>Oh dear, did she! It was one of Maeve’s favourites. It was fittingly pompous and slow, and Aoife didn’t really like playing it. </p><p>“But this song is about a gift from some heroic figure to save people from starvation and to assure they’d never go hungry again. Right? It’s vague. I always assumed it’s about grain.”</p><p>“It’s definitely not grain,” Florion answered. “It’s fifteen hundred pounds of murder. And if you doubt it...” He smiled again. “Try playing the first three cords and see what happens. I promise you’ll love it.”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>She looked around. No one was paying much attention to them. For a moment, she felt like they were two birds on a high perch, observing the life below. But Florion’s glass was almost miraculously full again. She didn’t notice it being filled. She didn’t see who did it. He didn’t even have to stand up. </p><p>“What do I get if you’re wrong and I feel humiliated?”</p><p>He bent lower and whispered right into her ear, “Whatever you wish, my sweet thing.” In <em> that </em> voice. And flicked his tongue over her earlobe. </p><p>She resolutely reached for the instrument. </p><p><em> You slut, you absolutely shameless slut. </em>She ignored the voice, and didn’t even tell it to shut up, or to die. Obviously it was useless at this point. </p><p>One chord, and two, and the conversations died out. Three chords, people set aside their glasses, someone stood up. Aoife started singing. </p><p>And they started singing on the second line of the first verse. All of them. Every single person on the roof. </p><p>They were horrible at it, and they looked elated, and they pressed their hands to their hearts, and it was more of a collective deafening roar than it was singing.</p><p>At a point, she stopped singing altogether, plucking the strings inertially, although the sounds drowned in the uneven choir. When they were done, everyone was clapping, and cheering, and whistling loudly for what felt like a whole minute. They then went back to their drinks and conversations. And freshly cooked skewers. She suspected the latter were elasma as well.  </p><p>She turned to see Florion quietly chuckling to himself. He said, “See?”</p><p>“So now I won’t get whatever I wish,” she told him, half-joking. </p><p>“Of course you will,” he whispered, finger brushing her lips.  </p><p>Imogen intercepted, “Could you please play more?”</p><p>The previous one hardly counted as playing (or singing), but, seeing how lightning didn’t strike her, and no one yelled at her to shut the hell up, Aoife felt more encouraged. Plus, the wine had given her some courage as well, she suspected. </p><p>“The one you played at the square? I think it was some two weeks ago or less.”</p><p>Florion squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. She turned and looked at him, knowing that he remembered her performing it. At least, the second time she did it for him… </p><p>She sang quietly, only for the closest to her to hear, and not looking up. </p><p>When she was done, Imogen sighed dreamily. “Ah. So beautiful! I don’t understand a single word, of course, but I bet it’s about a big tragic love story. It feels like it.”</p><p>Aoife really didn’t want to disappoint her. So she didn’t. “Uhm. Sure. You could say that.”</p><p>Another man, distinctly sober, appeared on the roof and sat down on the bench opposite them. She immediately recognized him as the gadulka player from “Bunch of Counts”. </p><p>“It’s done,” he said to Florion. </p><p>“Appreciate it.”</p><p>“What’s done?” Aoife asked Florion quietly. </p><p>The man heard and answered in his stead, “That instrument downstairs needed tuning. I fixed it.”</p><p>“Oh. Thank you very much,” she said, somewhat taken aback. </p><p>“No probs. Is there any chow?” He got up and left the gazebo again. </p><p>She looked questioningly at Florion. </p><p>He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I asked around.”</p><p>She put the lyre carefully down on the low table, and hugged him around the neck with both hands. “Thank you...” </p><p>“Aren’t you worried I had an ulterior motive?” he muttered against her hair, stroking her back. </p><p>“What could that possibly be?”</p><p>“Oh I don’t know. Maybe this. Or maybe things I will do to you later tonight.” She hid her face in his collar, blushing and breathing in his scent. </p><p>There was a throaty cough from behind them. Oh, right. People. All around. Feet away. </p><p>It was Imogen again. She waited patiently for them to stop embracing, and then squinted and asked, almost timidly, “Another? Please?”</p><p>She sang one more, and then another, and when she looked up, it was only to look at Florion, and no one else. He wasn’t smiling, or chuckling, or drinking, or allowing himself to be distracted by anyone. Aoife only wanted his attention, and the one that came from others that gathered to listen to her, was weighing more and more on her, until she announced that that was it, and packed the lyre back into the bag. </p><p>She desperately wanted to get away and drag him with her. He noticed. Of course he noticed. </p><p>He kissed both of her hands, and murmured, “Go. I’ll see them out and join you.”  </p><p>Aoife excused herself and went downstairs, praying there’d be no one there. There wasn’t. She washed, and put on her nightgown, and one of the robes from the closet. The latter smelled of starch and lavender. It felt brand new. She wondered if it was her or one of her peers who weaved the fabric, or if it was created before her arrival. </p><p>She listened carefully for the sounds, but there weren’t any, and all the boots previously lined up in the hallway were gone. Aoife snuck into the sitting room again. All but two lamps were out. It was very warm in there, with a couple of flamestones in the hearth still crackling. She threw off the robe and slippers. </p><p>The harpsichord was dusted thoroughly, and stood open.</p><p>She couldn’t resist sitting down and playing “D'' minor scale a few times. The instrument was tuned just fine now, but Aoife was having trouble with her muscles more than she had with the music itself. She wasn’t used to holding her palms in this particular position, or to apply pressure in this way. It’s not that the lyre seemed easier, it was simply different. The two instruments had very little in common, if anything at all, and it felt like learning absolutely everything all over again. Besides, the aldamaari harpsichords felt all wrong, they were clearly designed for larger hands and larger bodies. For now, she’d abandoned the effort to keep her feet on the pedals, because it strained her almost painfully. </p><p>It all would require perseverance. Aoife swore out loud. She’d keep on trying, and trying, and trying, of course. But a little exasperation couldn’t hurt that much, could it? </p><p>Florion was in the doorway, holding a tray with a few stained glasses on it. </p><p>“You look so lovely,” he said in a very quiet voice. </p><p>Aoife smiled at him. There were words she wanted to say out loud, but they stayed unsaid. </p><p>“Do you need help?” she asked instead, nodding at the tray. </p><p>“No. Don’t worry.” </p><p>She realised he was eyeing her head to toe, slowly. Aoife from a few days ago probably would have darted for the bathrobe and covered herself. Current Aoife felt slightly better about wearing nothing but a chemise when alone with this particular man, so she stayed put. </p><p>Current Aoife also wanted to see this particular man done with cleaning, by her side and, probably, naked. </p><p>“Is it just you cleaning after their visits?”</p><p>“No, we have an agreement. Whenever they come over, they’d help tidy up the roof and the basement. But not downstairs. Is something wrong? I heard you swear.”</p><p>Aoife told him, then rubbed her left wrist forcefully, attempting to alleviate the tension. That, as it turns out, wasn’t the right thing to do. </p><p>“I’m having trouble keeping them this way when I’m sitting down. I almost wish I could play standing up, but this isn’t how it’s done.”</p><p>“Do you think you want to keep on learning to play it at all?”</p><p>This was a good question, and she pondered on it for a few moments. It’s not like she was obligated, it’s not like she yearned to play during the service, although it was, indeed, a great honor. Aoife guessed that yes, she did want to, after all. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. </p><p>“I do.”</p><p>He picked up a glass with some wine at the bottom from the windowsill, and another, from the mantel, and put them on the tray. Then he left the whole thing on the tea table and approached her.  </p><p>“Mind if I help?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>She turned back to the instrument. Florion knelt behind her, and she felt his skin radiating heat even before he touched her. Her head felt dizzy, and it wasn’t the wine. </p><p>“Show me,” he said. A low whisper right into her ear. <em> Oh, drat… </em>Not too long ago, there was something else he asked to show him, in the exact same tone, and if she wasn’t already sitting now… Aoife played a little tune, aware of how close he was to her, almost pressing against her back. </p><p>He shook his head, a lock of his hair falling onto her shoulder, and then his hands slid around her arms, and held her wrists, and rubbed them, and then moved down to her fingers, kneading them gently between his, one palm, then another. </p><p>“Too stiff,” Florion said. “I rather think you tense and strain things you need to relax instead. Try rounding them instead of sprawling them.”</p><p>As advices go, this one was alright, but she encountered another obstacle. Beside the fact that his closeness and his scent were impeding her ability to play altogether. </p><p>“But then I won’t be able to play as loudly.”</p><p>He chuckled for some reason. </p><p>“Trust me. You don’t need to play loudly.” This was a vaguely odd thing to say. </p><p>“Is it a metaphor for something?” Aoife turned her head to look at him. Florion brushed her chin with his thumb and forefinger. </p><p>“I promise you, it’s not. All I’m saying is, at this point, you just need to play. And you did it so beautifully today. Here… Let me show you. This is a method I was taught.”</p><p>“But you don’t play any instruments.”</p><p>He dropped his head and smiled into her shoulder for a moment. “Not musical, no. But I understand the main principle. Your goal is, quite basically, to strengthen each of your fingers along its length, right?”</p><p>“Actually, I still don’t really know what my goal is, or what’s the correct way to hold my palms! My teacher is very strange.”</p><p>“In what way?” he asked, while slowly moving her fingers apart and gently bending them over the keys. She wondered how he knew to do that. How he knew anything about this, at all. </p><p>“Well. So far, she’d barely let me play. And I think she’d only ever taught toddlers… Toddlers with hands bigger than mine,” Aoife said. </p><p>“Your hands are just fine, Aoife. Give it time. Here, hold them like this. Relax them,” he said when he was done. “Good. And try playing a note with each finger independently, while the others remain immobile.”</p><p>She tried. </p><p>“Again. Watch them. Only one at a time. Make sure you apply equal pressure, no matter if it’s your thumb or pinky.”</p><p>“I don’t think I can...” </p><p>“Try it,” he said, gently but firmly. “Just try.” </p><p>She did, all the while keenly aware of how close he was. And then, because she still felt a little dizzy, and, perhaps, this time it was the wine, she said, quite earnestly, “I wish <em> you </em> were my teacher.”</p><p>Florion breathed into her hair and nuzzled it again. </p><p>“I wish that too. Do it again.”</p><p>She played the scale once more. It wasn’t getting easier, quite the contrary, but she was grasping the principle, at least, and could see how it might help if she did that often and long enough. </p><p>“I wonder if I’d be a strict one,” he murmured into her ear. Aoife dropped her fingers and closed her eyes, mouth falling slightly open. “Keep them how they were, Aoife.”</p><p>Oh yes he would be. But not the kind of strict who smacks you on the head and screams at you when you do something wrong (this type, she was very familiar with and had no affection for). No, a different kind of strict. </p><p>Her cheeks were flushed now. </p><p>“Again.” His hands were slowly crawling down her thighs, their warmth evident even through the fabric of the nightgown. </p><p>Her breath was catching. There was no word she knew that could describe how much she loved his voice, and the things it did to her. </p><p>“You’re getting better.” And up, and up against her hip bones. She didn’t know if she was. It was getting harder with every subsequent attempt. “Again.”</p><p>His chest was pressing firmly against her back, and his hands were on her breasts, and she couldn’t help but lean into him. Florion squeezed his palms and dragged his nails across the fabric. It felt like he was pressing keys that created music, too. A very different kind of music, with very different lyrics she was struggling not to sing. </p><p>“Again.”</p><p>Her fingers were shaking slightly, and she had trouble keeping them in place. But she really wanted to. Almost as much as she wanted to grind her hips against the seat.  </p><p>So this is what it felt like when you actually <em> wanted </em> to be obedient. </p><p>“I think you’ll learn,” he said, getting his hands under the fabric, slowly, carefully. “I think you’ll be amazing at it. Again.”</p><p>When he squeezed her bare breasts, two of her fingers slipped, and the note lingered in the air, like a broken whimper. </p><p>Florion said, “Hmm,” and pinched both of her nipples, painfully, and she yelped, but only because the pain was sweet. “Keep your fingers where they were.” He pinched again, and twisted, and it felt so much more real that in the dream. She bit her lip. </p><p>He moved slightly to the right, rising higher above her, and Aoife felt his gaze on her face, but dared not move. </p><p>“Look at me,” he demanded. She did. His pupils were dilated so much, his eyes seemed black, with merely a thin halo of gold around them. Aoife was expecting a kiss, and her lips parted even further. But Florion just looked intently, hands still on her breasts, nails dragging, fingers curling. </p><p>“I don’t know why,” he said, his voice low, and hoarse, and heavy. “But I wish to do something to you right now. A very particular kind of something.”</p><p>He squeezed again, with pressure, and a shiver went through the entirety of her body. He brought his face closer to hers.</p><p>Aoife moaned a little, broken sound that was supposed to be a “please” because she wanted it, she wanted whatever he wished to do to her, and then her world was almost upside down, and the nightgown, torn off, the harpsichord, shut close with a horrible bang, and the next second she was laid on top of it and shivered there, while he was nearly <em> ripping </em> his trousers open. Aoife watched him. She was so intent on keeping her eyes open. </p><p>She watched his gaze, dark with lust, traveling her body, but Florion wasn’t reaching for her. </p><p>He said, “Touch yourself,” and she surrendered to his commands, and to the wet heat of her own arousal, completely. He was half naked now, having thrown off his shirt, and unlaced his trousers, and standing over her, with his fingers drawing circles around her breasts so slowly and gently one second, then squeezing almost painfully, the next. </p><p>“I am going to,” he said deliberately slowly, as if studying her reactions, “come all over these.” Florion pinched both of her nipples at once, and she moaned, too aroused to form proper words. He didn’t wait for any other response. </p><p>Next, he was stroking his cock almost absentmindedly, level with her breasts. She watched that, too. She thought his manhood a work of art: every contour of it, fluent perfection, every memory of its velvety texture on her tongue, a jolt of pleasure.  </p><p>Aoife watched this; and also the way his arms and shoulders tensed, the way his chest swelled and abs rippled as he towered over her, the way his lips opened slightly, warm breath landing on her skin. She watched and caressed herself, and every second was an effort not to come. She watched his evidently very practiced hand; the way it twisted slightly on every other upstroke, fingers curling around the head with precision. </p><p>She let her lips fall slightly ajar once more, and looked up at him, and flicked her tongue, pleading silently. He understood, and nearly hissed a breath, and brought his cock to her mouth; she licked the slit, and teased it with her tongue, moaning at the taste of stray sweet droplets of precum, and circled the head with her lips as best she could without snapping her neck; and was rewarded with a low grunt. The position was uncomfortable; perhaps he noticed. She wasn’t sure. </p><p>But he did croon, “Mm-won’t get carried away. I’ll fuck your sweet mouth soon enough,” and brought his cock back to her breasts, and resolutely rubbed the head against her hardened nipple, and grasped another with his fingers, and <em> twisted </em>yet again, and she was undone almost at once. </p><p>“I’m...”</p><p>“Look. At. Me.”</p><p>She climaxed against her fingers, keening, and arching her back, and shaking, eyes locked with his, a reminder of how intently he was watching her all this time, too. He was moaning in unison with her. Not because he was coming, as well, but because he liked it. He actually liked looking. He liked what he was seeing. He liked it when she felt good. And it was so hard to believe that she could barely wrap her mind around the thought, but oh, it alone could have made her climax.  </p><p>With another low groan, he repeated, “Keep your fingers where they are,” as if she would do otherwise. “Keep them moving.” She did. She plunged them deep, and brought them out, and in again, and bent her knees and lifted her thighs to get deeper, and to let him see better. He watched it all, intently, and his breath was catching. “That’s a good girl.”</p><p>Then his hips shifted slightly, and he cupped his balls with his other hand, and pulled them down, and she thought of how much she wanted to suck on those, too, so much so that the thought made her salivate. </p><p><em> You dirty wanton slut. </em>Oh yes, I am, and it is glorious. </p><p>Florion was barely breathing now; teeth clenched, arm gripping tighter and moving faster. </p><p>She whispered his name, a little prayer to her god. </p><p>“All over you, sweet thing,” he groaned, and she felt seed splash across her belly. After that, he aimed, and the rest shot in thick pulses into the hollow between her breasts, and on her nipples, and trickled deliciously down. </p><p>She rose slightly, and caught the head between her lips, and sucked the last droplets from it, while rubbing his seed into her skin. The taste was intoxicating. The guttural sounds he was making were intoxicating. </p><p>It wasn’t over yet though. He yanked her legs open, and grasped her wrist, and pushed it away, replacing her digits with his own; no warning, no lingering, one stroke, deep and hard. </p><p>It burned, and the whole sensation was just this side of pain, and she yelped, and flounced about, instinctively, but he stilled her within his grasp, and there was brutality and domination in the gesture. She <em> loved </em> it. </p><p>“Scream, Aoife,” he said, and then immediately bent down and <em> sucked </em>her clit in. Nothing like yesterday, when he was so careful, so tender, so slow. Now, his tongue was a whirlwind, and his fingers relentless, cruel, moving, moving, moving. </p><p>She couldn’t watch anything anymore; she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her fingers were frantic, sinking into his hair, tugging at it, scraping at his scalp. Her breathing turned into a barely coherent string of whispers (sogoodsogoodsogood), she felt herself a collection of sharp cogs and springs inside a clockwork, and it was winded up ever tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and then, at once, <em> everything </em> snapped. </p><p>She screamed as he lapped and ate and swallowed her orgasm with an animalistic roar. </p><p>
  <em> It’s real. This is real. Not a dream. Real. O please be real.  </em>
</p><p>Aoife unsealed her eyelids, with some effort. Florion was leaning on the harpsichord with both arms, head slightly bowed. He looked oddly bewildered. For a second she even thought, shocked. </p><p>She still felt so blissful that it was hard to think properly, much less move. She reached for him, and he helped her down, but then changed his mind and scooped her in his arms instead. Sighing against his shoulder, she closed her eyes once more. </p><p>Florion was gentle as he washed her with a sponge, but she was coming down, slowly, and noticing the look still there, and those strange, sideways glances he was throwing her way, as if checking if she was fine. </p><p>He laid her on the bed. She asked, “Are you alright?” There was still confusion in his eyes. Florion paused next to the bed, looking at her, fingers braiding and unbraiding, and after a while asked, “Are you?”</p><p>Better than alright. She was ecstatic.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He nodded and, with a promise to be back soon, left to either wash as well, or finish cleaning up the mess, or both. It gave her time to think, but she forcefully dismissed each and every thought, pushing them, kicking and screaming, out of her head. She started drifting off to sleep but came to, oddly enough, when the lights were blown out. </p><p>“Now where were we,” Florion said, slipping under the covers and reaching for her. “Yes. Me saying that I’m sorry.”</p><p>She edged closer to him in the darkness, and wished for the moon to stay set for longer. </p><p>“Why are you sorry?”</p><p>“I should have asked. I should have kept on asking.”</p><p>“But.” She lay on her side and ran her fingers down his chest. “I liked it. Very much.” </p><p>Florion said, “Uh huh,” and moved forward, leaning into her touch. “Look, I... I’m new to this and I一” He was actually stumbling. Was he ever stumbling before? “I’m fairly certain that if I give myself free reign with this, I might do something… Unseemly.”</p><p>It sounded like he wanted to use some other adjective but changed his mind at the last moment, after a brief consideration. </p><p>Well, Aoife just discovered that he was completely naked. He seemed to have a habit of sleeping naked, and she thought that she could get used to this, especially after reaching lower and finding him still hard. </p><p>“Aoife...” he said almost reproachfully when she squeezed his cock and giggled, but the very next second his breath caught and he thrusted his hips forward ever so slightly. </p><p>“What if,” she said, curling her fingers tighter, “you don’t keep on asking, but instead… Instead I give you permission right now to do whatever you want to me.” </p><p>“But what if一”</p><p>“And if,” she interrupted, reaching for his scrotum with her other hand and tentatively touching it too; He winced but didn’t move away, “if you do something I don’t like, I will tell you.”</p><p>“You will have to trust me completely for that,” he whispered through gritted teeth. </p><p>“I already do.”</p><p>“I...” He paused. She wondered if he was savoring the confession or pondering on it. Or, maybe, simply enjoying whatever her quickly learning hands were doing. “I suppose then,” he planted his palm on her shoulder and squeezed, almost painfully, pulling her closer, “we’re going to need a word.”</p><p>“A word?”</p><p>“Page... Oh, f-fuck... Page one hundred fifty five,” he caught her left wrist and guided it higher. </p><p>“I didn’t get that far,” Aoife said. “Not with the text, anyway.”</p><p>“It’s a word that you normally wouldn’t use in circumstances such as these,” Florion slid his hand down the curve of her torso, grabbed her leg, pulled it and planted it on his hip to give his fingers better access. She bit down the moan when they invaded her; it didn’t hurt anymore. “Oh gods, you’re still wet. So wet for me...”</p><p>“The word,” she reminded him, smiling through it. He twisted and curled his fingers in retaliation, and she let out a moan. </p><p>“I’m getting to it. Whatever it is I’m doing, when you say the word, I stop. No questions asked, no judgement, no… M-m-m so hard to concentr-r-r一 And then you tell me what you want instead, or if I should back down completely.”</p><p>“What is the word?” She was also beginning to have trouble concentrating. It wasn’t easy talking, or thinking, or breathing, with two of his fingers pumping in and out of her in a steady rhythm and his thumb pressing the keys an octave higher. </p><p>“We need to choose one. To be ours.”</p><p>...but she didn’t need to think for too long about this one. </p><p>“The word is “snowdrops”.”</p><p>“Good choice,” he said. And stopped, and pulled away, and even tried to slither out of her hand, too. This last one failed.  </p><p>Aoife shrilled in protest. Florion chuckled in the darkness. “No exceptions. You say it, I stop. Do you understand how it works?”</p><p>“Yes,” she exhaled. </p><p>“Good. Now that it’s out of the way though一”</p><p>He rolled her onto her back, forcefully, with her fingers still squeezed around his cock, and moved over her, enveloping her almost like a dome, in his scent and his warmth. </p><p>If there were any substantial light, he’d be blocking it. </p><p>“May I continue?”</p><p>This time she did manage a “please” just fine. He lay on his side, leaning on one elbow, and kissed her. Once, and then again, and after that, he barely stopped kissing her, if only to run his tongue down her throat, or to whisper in her ear. </p><p>The harder he pressed in, the faster his fingers moved, the more she curled hers. He thrusted his hips to meet her. The position wasn’t really comfortable, but they adjusted; her hands weren’t nearly slippery enough despite all of the sweat but she licked one palm, then the other, eliciting a grunt from him immediately after, and it got better. </p><p>They were ascending to the peak so very slowly this time, but somehow she already felt that the incoming avalanche had the power to bury them both.</p><p>“I am. So happy,” she whispered against his lips, and felt him smile in the darkness. “So happy with you.” So happy in his arms. </p><p>The moon crawled out, and looked into the window, illuminating them. Now It felt like an admirer more than it did an onlooker. </p><p>“My beautiful girl,” he whispered back, fingers still moving inside of her, mouth against hers. “I don’t ever want to part from you.”</p><p><em> Was this allowed? </em>Of course it was. Here, everything is allowed. </p><p>Hips thrusting ever more feverishly into her hand, teeth scraping her neck; he was getting close. </p><p>
  <em> This is allowed. I want this.  </em>
</p><p>“Please, Florion…” A tiny broken plea; Too scared to be loud, too overwhelmed to keep it in.  “In my mouth. Come in my mouth. Please let me taste you.”</p><p>He didn’t need any other encouragement; Florion sprang up to his knees and pulled her down by the shoulder. She replaced his fingers with her own again, picking up where he left off. Oh, she wanted this so much… </p><p>Working himself frantically, he whispered, “Open. Open wide.”</p><p>She obeyed. Her heart was pounding so hard and fast, she wondered in passing how she was still conscious. But then, so was his, she could feel his pulse on her tongue. He slipped the tip deeper inside her mouth, and she clamped her lips once more around the head, sucking him in, and he cried out as a wounded animal would. <em> I did this.  </em></p><p>Pulling back just a little, and grabbing the back of her neck, Florion said, “Stick out your tongue.” She obeyed again, and looked up into his eyes. “Oh gods, Aoife. What are you doing to me. What aaah一” </p><p>With a moan so deep and low it morphed into a roar in seconds, he rubbed the tip on her tongue again, and then he was throbbing against it, and coming, and she moaned in turn, because so was she, shaking and struggling to catch every subsequent spurt. One caught on her chin, one hit her cheek but she closed her mouth around the head once again, and swallowed. There was so much that she needed two gulps. The taste of him, so heady, so delicious, so sweet, enveloped her mouth, and she greedily sucked down to every last drop, up to a point where he forcefully pulled out, overstimulated, shaking head to toes. </p><p>All of it, an act so outrageously lewd that she couldn’t have imagined it mere months ago, was now the most arousing thing in the world. </p><p>“You villainess,” Florion grunted with a smile, collapsing, and crawled down and across the bed to put his head on her lap. </p><p>If they could do things like this to each other without him even penetrating her… She was aching to find out what else was possible.  </p><p>“You’re so delicious,” she said. </p><p>Florion chuckled. “That was my line. But the sight of you, Aoife, I一”</p><p>He dragged his teeth on the soft skin of her thigh, and she shivered. Florion turned his head, and moved his hair away from his face to look up at her. Aoife’s never felt so pleasantly exhausted in her entire life. </p><p>“Have we already done this?”</p><p>“Yes,” she breathed out, stroking his hair lazily. “You gave me just one taste.”</p><p>
  <em> And I desperately wanted more, and still do.  </em>
</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>So pleasantly exhausted; head, nearly empty; nasty inner voice, unconscious in a ditch. </p><p>“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she promised in a whisper. </p><p>“I don’t know if you’ll be able to talk tomorrow. I want to try and make you go hoarse. In fact, I promise I will.”</p><p>“Oh no. Is this revenge? Was my singing that bad?”</p><p>He bit her, playfully. </p><p>“You know it wasn’t. You know it’s beautiful. Everything about you… Oh, Aoife...” He sounded like he was about to say or ask something else, but made only a tired little sound instead and rubbed his head weakly against her thigh again. </p><p>His eyes were closing. </p><p>~*~</p><p>He dreamt of hornets. Thousands upon thousands of them. Their sleek silvery bodies, unmoving. Their venom, strengthening with time. Their wings, no longer trembling. In the unending darkness, deep down below, they slept. They slept and waited to crawl out of his mouth and to take flight on his command, and to sting and slaughter and devour. </p><p>Florion jerked awake, a short-lived scream still on his lips. But there were fingers reaching for him, arms enveloping him, and he crawled into the embrace instinctively, even before he remembered who he really was, and whom these gentle hands belonged to. </p><p><em> Not alone anymore. </em>Was this allowed?</p><p>She wanted him, and he wanted her; to be with her, to <em> stay </em> with her, to make her his, to be hers. To live a normal life one happy bright day, one passion-filled night at a time. This was not possible. </p><p>This was not allowed. </p><p>He fell back asleep, head on her chest, her pulse in his ear. The only sound amongst the emptiness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Social Anxiety, Mutual Masturbation, External Cumshot, Come Eating, Kink Negotiation, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. P.III Dream On//The Kenn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Dom/sub dynamics for soft cinnamon rolls<br/>*Kink negotiation for clueless wholesome idiots<br/>*Finger exercises for beginner pianists</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Their religious practices are a mystery to us. On every eighth day they gather together in what appears to be a church hall, of which they have many, and sing songs, and hold hands. It is as of yet unclear whom they worship, or if they know of the One True God at all. Could it be that they know of The Monster and mistake him for God? My vocabulary is too limited to engage in talks of it, but I am learning, as are my companions.” </em>
</p><p>He is ten years old. He doesn’t know for sure because he doesn’t have a real birthday. But dad says it’s ten. They celebrate anyway, always on the day he was found. </p><p>Him and a few other children all stand in line and shift their feet. Impatient, tired and nervous. One nibbles his nails noisily. Another keeps sniffling.  </p><p>Behind them is a crowd comprised of their parents and friends, maintaining a stupid respectful distance they’ve been told to maintain. </p><p>He turns around. Ouhri grins, lifts a fist, and mouths again, “Please, fail”. Dad just smiles at him, but Florion’s not sure if it’s reassurance or something else. He doesn’t want to fail. He wants to win and go be a dreamer, because they say that dreamers can learn and find anything, and he wants to find his real mum and stop hearing her cry after he falls asleep. </p><p>Footsteps approach, echoing in the cavernous corridor, and everyone falls silent.</p><p>“Right,” clad in grey robes, a middle-aged woman that’s just appeared from around the corner addresses them right away. “Here’s how it’s going to work. I will call your name, you step right here, and put your arm into the pool, and hold it there.”  </p><p>No greetings, no ceremony, no anything. Who knows, maybe it’s better this way. Faster. </p><p>A girl is called. She looks triumphant and very snooty. She does as she’s told, holding her arm up to her elbow in the water. Nothing happens for five second, ten, fifteen. </p><p>“You’re free to go, sweetie,” says the woman. “Thank you.”</p><p>The girl’s face falls, it looks like she’s about to cry, but family members rush to take her by the hand and lead her away. Florion wonders if she’s also wanted to go looking for her real mum, or something like that. </p><p>Another girl, same result. This one seems relieved. Three boys one after another, nothing happens. One is relieved, one angry, one indifferent. Then he is called, and he’s second to last, and there are only seven people left in the cave. It isn’t getting any easier to breathe, however. He rolls his sleeve and takes a step. And another one. Until he’s kneeling next to the elevated pool resembling a big bath. </p><p>“Your arm in the pool, sweetie.”</p><p>Florion thinks that nothing’s going to happen, and he’s no longer sure if he wants it to. Moments tick away in his chest, each one louder than the last. Then he thinks he sees some movement. There is something in the pool, deep under the surface. It looks like a snake. He winces, and he’s about to recoil. He hates snakes. </p><p>“Keep your arm where it is until I tell you to stop,” the woman reminds him, no longer adding “sweetie”. </p><p>Is it a snake? Or is it just a giant worm? It coils, and it rises slowly up, and it doesn’t seem to have eyes. Why does it not have eyes? Florion closes his. He doesn’t want to look, and the woman doesn’t want to alleviate his fear, so it’s safer like this. Then something brushes his wrist. He whimpers. </p><p>“Hold it.”</p><p><em> Fuck you, lady, </em>he thinks. But holds, nonetheless. </p><p>The worm touches his fingers. The way a cat would brush under them, asking for a caress. He doesn’t want to ever pet any animal again. Something pricks his wrist, and he whimpers again, and keeps his eyes shut, thinking of dad <em> he’s here he’s right here he won’t let any harm come to me </em>and of Ouhri who would, no doubt, mock him mercilessly for any signs of fear. </p><p>Then he forgets them both. He doesn’t quite know how, but he forgets his name, and he forgets to keep his eyes shut, or that he even has them, or what eyes are. He is no longer in the damp cave beneath the Mountain Mother. He is in a different world, and this world is boundless, and unlike anything he’s ever seen, and governed only by the voice he is now part of. He could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. In time. </p><p>The voice says to him, “I hath become life.”</p><p>He doesn’t understand what it means but Florion knows that he is in the presence of a god. No. The God. The one true God Is talking to him. Is favoring him. </p><p>The little boy he used to be is now gone. Florion is a dreamer.</p><p>He opens his eyes. The worm isn’t there. Neither are any ripples on the face of the pool. The water is calm. There’s silence in his ears. Absolute, complete, deafening silence. And then the sounds come back all at once. </p><p>“Well that’s just splendid, sweetie,” the woman announces, her shrieking voice piercing him like a knife. </p><p>There is an outline of a flower on his wrist, as simple and as recognizable as a toddler’s drawing of a daisy. </p><p>“And with a name like this, who would have thought! Such an amazing coincidence!”</p><p>His father is now by his side, and squeezes his shoulder gently. “Actually, this name was etched into his skin when they found him.” </p><p>“I see! Oh, this is intriguing. No wonder… Well now. Go and talk to my peer over there, sir. He’ll instruct you on what’s to follow.”</p><p>A man in grey robes identical to hers beckons to his father. </p><p>Ouhri gives him a nudge with his elbow. “Were you scared?”</p><p>“Not for a single second,” lies Florion. </p><p>The last girl throws a nasty look in their direction and tries to trip Florion on his way out. While his father talks to the caretaker in hushed whispers, he changes his mind and decides to stay to watch her fail. This time he sees the worm. It’s not that scary. And she doesn’t fail. Her name is Lideora, and there is now a drawing on her wrist as well.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Florion opened his eyes into the darkness. It wasn’t even dawn yet, but he knew with all the certainty of a freshly awoken mind that he won’t be able to fall back asleep. The dream he just had was not a nightmare, or even unpleasant, but so remarkably detailed that it felt unnerving. With all the sights, and smells, and feelings, and tiny things he didn’t know he still remembered. </p><p>What was that for? </p><p>Aoife’s hand crawled down his chest. </p><p>“Florion...”</p><p>
  <em> Not alone anymore. Please make it last. Please.  </em>
</p><p>Of all things he could ever get tired of, her calling him by name would probably be dead last on the list. He covered her palm with his. Waking her up in the middle of the night was not the last thing on an entirely different list. Just, not like this.  </p><p>“Thirsty...” she whispered. </p><p>There was water on the bedside table, and Florion curled her fingers carefully around the glass. Each of them had a callus or two, he noticed. Most likely not from strings, but from hard work at the Temple, that she wasn’t even obligated to do, or from the loom shuttle. This thought stirred something in him, yet again, like water about to boil, and then subsided almost immediately. His mind was in disarray. </p><p>For a moment he thought she, too, would awaken completely, but she simply rose a bit, took a few small gulps of water, gave the glass to him, and fell back down, and curled, and went back to sleep. </p><p>For another moment Florion felt so overwhelmed by feelings, he thought he’d burst. </p><p>Last night with her was etched into his memory: every sigh still in his ears, every touch still on his fingertips. Florion savored them for a while, in no particular order, with eyes closed. The feel of her breasts and skin and delicious curves under his fingers, the sounds she made <em> oh gods the sounds</em>, the raw, nearly painful desire he didn’t even know for sure he was capable of before this, the color of her eyes, made even brighter by the moonlight, her throat moving, the flick of her tongue over her lips when she一 </p><p>“O gods, have mercy on me,” Florion muttered, not truly wanting any mercy at all. </p><p>Turns out Ouhri, while, unlike him, being free to choose, repeatedly chose to miss out. Turns out, affection mattered. Turns out, sex with someone you have feelings for is so much better than just plain fucking. </p><p>The thought that each new day would feed his feelings, and each new night would fulfill more desires, made Florion feel elated. He felt as happy by her side as he’d never been in his entire life. He ached to find out how far it all could go. How connected they could feel, physically and mentally. </p><p>Then why was he feeling so anxious again? </p><p>He got up and felt around the room for something to put on. Shaking slightly, and not quite sure if it was the early morning chill or一</p><p>There's been something else there, in between; something dark, and nasty, and undefined. Another riddle, another little thing unwittingly forgotten. </p><p>He couldn’t help but feel as if someone stole his memories again. This time, it was truly an absurd idea without any logical basis at all. Normal dreams always leave, you cannot choose which ones to remember. Yet Florion somehow felt that it wasn’t a dream he’s forgotten, but a visitation. </p><p>“Nonsense,” he said to himself, splashing water on his face. </p><p>Thoughts are always distorted in the darkness. He went downstairs and got some lights burning. </p><p>The feeling didn’t go away. </p><p>He wished for more sleep, but was wide awake and wanting to pace. Crunches didn’t help. Washing didn’t help. So he found more stuff to do. Gods knew this house always had more chores on offer. Florion dusted the living room once more, trying to ignore the harpsichord for fear of waking the beast too early, and wondering if he’d ever be able to look at the instrument in the same way again. He then cleaned the kitchen surfaces to a pristine shine, all the while making futile attempts to dig out that one weird thing that kept eating at him, to no avail. </p><p>He checked on Aoife. She slept, hugging his pillow tightly. Florion wondered, in passing, if it was like this for her when he was under. Standing over an unmoving body, yearning to reach out, to touch, to embrace... Of course not. Nothing like this. She didn’t know for sure he would wake up. He, himself, didn’t know for a time. </p><p>He lingered near her, on the edge of the bed, not wanting to leave, feeling like she needs his protection in this state. <em> I’m clingy</em>, he thought. <em> How did I become so clingy so fast. </em> </p><p>She told him not to worry about her. How could he not, when there were people actively meaning her harm? She didn’t even know it, and yet he was not allowed to tell her? And a dreamer, just like him, someone to be under with, someone to explore that boundless other world with, together, someone who could stay with him and would not have to go through the torture of loneliness and waiting, every single year. <em> Only if she’s chosen, </em> he reminded himself. <em> Only if He chooses her…  </em></p><p>He did doubt sometimes. Mostly he doubted others. Mostly he doubted the “One True God”, who did not want to be a god. This time, he doubted himself. And the fact that he deserved her affection. What if she sees him for who he really is… What if she learns the truth. </p><p><em> What if </em> <b> <em>I</em> </b> <em> learn the truth and it destroys me?  </em></p><p>At a point, Florion heard his stomach rumble. There would be no more sleeping today. He made more tea. </p><p>There were copious amounts of alcohol in the house, with the pantry, in turn, being almost empty, but Florion did find a few jars of preserves, some oil, and a bit of flour. He sniffed it. It was fine. Must have been brought by the Temple sisters when he moved in. The fisherfolk left a couple of raw goose eggs, and some cold-smoked elasma uneaten from last night.  </p><p>The preserves turned out to be mostly pickles, but there was a jar of marmalade as well. </p><p>In the kitchen, he mixed batter out of the eggs, oil, water, flour and a drop of honey and, after laying the table for two, set on frying makeshift griddle cakes. All the while nibbling on pickled olives, which made him feel slightly better. </p><p>Admittedly, Florion was out of cooking practice, but he made do. The first two failed attempts, however, went out the window, to the birds. </p><p>The water pipes in the house growled, indicating that Aoife was awake and washing. It was still early. They still had time together, unlike yesterday. He felt a bit guilty about abandoning her in bed alone for the second morning in a row. Something needed to be done about his sleeping problem if it persisted. And he would be the one to do it. Once he finished the distiller. </p><p>It took him a while to understand why his heart was beating faster with every passing minute, and he did when Aoife appeared in the kitchen. </p><p>Why do they call it falling?</p><p>Her lovely hair was wet and darker for it, almost the color of ripe chestnuts. Stray drops of water ran down her neck. She was wearing the white nightgown from last night again. It was long, reaching nearly to her ankles; opaque and dense. Except for the wavy flounce on each shoulder, everything about it was practical and simple. But he thought she looked more seductive and sensual in it than he could have ever imagined it was possible for any woman to look. </p><p>He felt slightly guilty for messing it up yesterday. </p><p>“Morning.” </p><p>“You are so beautiful,” Florion blurted out in response, and she smiled at him, and he very nearly burned himself again. </p><p>Why do they call it falling when it’s clearly plummeting? </p><p>She kissed his shoulder and hovered behind it for a few moments. </p><p>“Are you making breakfast?” </p><p>“Yup.” Florion winked at her, playfully, almost despite himself, feeling, in fact, just a tad smug. It’s not that he was proud of his meager cooking skills. It’s that he enjoyed seeing her smile. Making her smile. </p><p>Aoife slowly eyed the laid side of the table just as he took out the last griddle cake and moved the pan away from the cooktop. </p><p>“It’s ready. You hungry?”</p><p>She appeared to be musing on something. Her face reflected inner conflict. The side that soon won the battle, however, made her smile a little like she did yesterday, when he laid her on the bed, and Florion’s heart skipped a beat. </p><p>“Yes. I am,” Aoife said, and then she dropped on her knees before him, unlaced his breeches in two swift moves, unleashed his cock, who sensed what was coming before Florion’s head did, and pounced on him with her mouth. </p><p>What he planned on saying was, “Oh, fuck.” What came out was a short string of unintelligible sounds. </p><p>The beast roared, and then purred. Melting, melting, <em> melting </em> on her tongue. </p><p>He wanted to shut his eyes, but he wanted to look down even more, so he did the latter.  She wasn’t just sucking his cock, she was having a passionate love affair with it. The word <em> worship </em>crossed his delirious mind. Kissing, and licking, and teasing, and sliding her fingers over it, and squeezing, and taking it as deep as she could one second, and licking the head again the next; eyes heavy, lidded, throat making little humming sounds. </p><p>“Aoife… My sweet, sweet girl… Please… O please...” He didn’t even know what he was pleading for. Words, curses, sounds were spilling out of him in no particular order until a phrase finally formed. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” </p><p>So that’s why. </p><p>She didn’t stop or slow down, she doubled, tripled her efforts on him. There was a dark and bestial part of him, however, that wanted even more; wanted his palm to fly to the back of her head, to pin Aoife against the table leg, to command her to put her hands behind her back, to fuck her mouth hard, rough, throat-deep until she was breathless and choking. He reined it in. It took a lot of effort. Again. </p><p>She watched for his reactions, and studied him, finally finding one tactic that made his breath catch, and stuck to it, until it yielded results, and Florion very nearly lost his mind and his footing. There was much more light in the room now. He saw every little detail. His cum pulsing out onto her outstretched tongue, as she was still gently massaging his balls, squeezing her prize out. Her eyelashes, fluttering, when she closed her mouth and swallowed, and licked her flushed lips. Even that goddamn book didn’t have <em> this.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Did I even wake up at all or am I still dreaming some insane wet dream?  </em>
</p><p>Later, when he re-learned how to breathe, he grabbed Aoife and planted her on the dining table, away from the dishware. </p><p>He anticipated doing other things to her on this particular surface later, but for now… </p><p>“Would be very impolite of me not to break the bread, don’t you think?” Florion said, and nearly slammed her shoulders down with both arms. Nothing under the nightgown. Good, because he would have ripped her underwear to shreds with his teeth. </p><p>Afterwards, they ate the breakfast as well; but it was already cold. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Looked like rain; the air was heavy and damp, the waves were gaining speed and volume. The carefully trimmed plants that grew on both sides of the Observation deck rustled softly in the wind. No one around but the two of them. </p><p>He opened his jerkin invitingly and she stepped into it, and turned to stick her head out and look at the sea. He pressed her closer, arms over her shoulders. </p><p>She asked, “Who are the gods you swear by, Florion?”</p><p>Just some hypothetical gods. Barely anything more than an expression. That’s what he told her. </p><p>Aoife shook her head. “It doesn’t work like this.”</p><p>“How does it work, then?”</p><p>Aoife threw her head back to look up into his face. “Gods are never hypothetical. Right?”</p><p>“Right,” he admitted with a sigh. </p><p>“So who’s yours? Do the aldamaari have a god?” The question hung in the air for a few moments. </p><p>He answered it with another one. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>“It’s simply something I’ve been wondering about for two years, and no one’s given me a straight answer. You have church service. You have a sermon every week. But they never mention any god. You have blessings, and holidays, and you swear by… Someone.”</p><p>Florion squeezed her tighter. The winds were picking up. The view was beautiful, as always. But they’d have to go soon. </p><p>She probed again, “Another thing you’re not allowed to tell me?”</p><p>“I am allowed,” he said, and then, almost feeling the Mountain Mother’s gaze on his back: “There is a god. It’s just that... Well. He doesn’t want to be considered a god.”</p><p><em> If you adopt a kitten, are you it's god? </em> Kenn would ask. <em> If you care for a tree, are you it's god?  </em></p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“They say he doesn't want us worshipping him. That he’s simply our guardian, not our god. And he insists, worship whomever you like. As long as it’s not someone malevolent. He says, believe in any god you wish, as long as it’s not me.”</p><p>Florion cradled her in his arms. Yes, he loved the work he’s been doing, but the promise of parting, even for a few hours, felt almost physically painful already. It wasn’t something he was used to. Not even with a best friend who came and went all the time. </p><p>“Not a selfish god, then.”</p><p>
  <em> He’s not selfish, but I am.  </em>
</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>She nodded, and then said, “I’ve got more questions about this. Will you answer them?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Alright. This guardian. Was the Temple not erected in his honor? It has no imagery of him.”</p><p>“Not in his honor, no. The Temple is there to serve the people, not a god. So is the clergy. You probably know this by now.”</p><p>“Yes.” She sighed. “I figured all the cleaning, and the sweeping, and the gardening around town wasn’t really to appease a god.”</p><p>“Just so.”</p><p>“He doesn’t want any priests, then?”</p><p>“Well,” Florion lingered. This, he wasn’t sure he was allowed to tell her, but he took the plunge anyway. Who cares anymore. Who the hell still cares, and why? Aoife is one of them. This is her home now. “He’s got the caretakers. He sometimes talks to them. Mostly to ask them to remind us that he’s not a god and doesn’t want to be one.” </p><p>“I see. And did he ever have a messiah?”</p><p>The word was unfamiliar to him. “What’s that?”</p><p>“A godly messenger. The human god had two. Neither accomplished much, if you ask me...”</p><p>Florion sniggered. She was adorable, and he was an idiot, and in too deep. </p><p>“Actually, he did. But that’s just a story. It’s boring and unpopular.”</p><p>“Tell me?”</p><p><em> Keep it short, </em>went unsaid. </p><p>“They say many centuries ago there was a mysterious woman. A masked lady always wearing grey. Nobody knew her name. Until she disappeared for good one day, she would come down from the mountain every few decades, and dwell among us for a year, communicating only with the High Priestess, and performing miracles. Allegedly.”</p><p>“Allegedly,” Aoife echoed. She turned and hugged him, voice muffled against his chest. </p><p>“Allegedly this is also why we still have a High Priestess. In case this lady comes back. That, or because no one else wants to be a choirmaster during the service. Thankless job.” At this, Aoife chuckled, and his heart skipped a beat again. “As for miracles, no one really knows, or remembers, or cares what they were. No one wrote any of it down, you see. There was just widespread consensus. That the woman was Kenn’s messenger, and he didn’t deny it.”</p><p>Suddenly, she tensed in his arms. </p><p>“Florion. Did you say, <em> Kenn</em>? Is it the name of your guardian? God. Whatever he is.” </p><p>“Yes. Why?”</p><p>“Because,” her eyes looked huge when she lifted her head to look at him, “among humans, this is the name of a horrible monster. In fact, <em> The </em> Monster.”</p><p>He couldn’t help but chuckle. “What? Kenn isn’t horrible. Irrational, sometimes, sure, but...”</p><p>“Humans think he is the king of all demons. The nemesis of god. One who once sought to destroy the human race, or still wants to, probably. They believed that since the beginning of time. Some parents frighten their children with him. I’ve seen ancient manuscripts about him.”</p><p>“Ancient? But. This must be a coincidence. Right? Our races only met a few decades ago.”</p><p>“Right,” she said. Still, her gaze was thoughtful, and her fingers scraped him mechanically, anxiously, through the shirt. </p><p>“Does this scare you?”</p><p>“No. Just surprises me, is all. I guess if I were you, I wouldn’t mention him to humans.”</p><p>“Fair enough. But I suggest not thinking about it.”</p><p>Aoife agreed, “Good suggestion.” </p><p>“So do you believe in a god?”</p><p>She seemed to ponder for a few moments, and then said, “Not anymore. Is that a problem?”</p><p>
  <em> “Anymore”. What have they done to her. What have those beasts done to her.  </em>
</p><p>“No. Of course not.”</p><p>“What about you, did you choose another god to worship?”</p><p>He shook his head. </p><p>“I meant what I said. When I mention gods, It’s just a word. Probably. Or, in case there is any god that wants to listen. Well then, he’d know where to find me.” </p><p>“Whom do others worship then?”</p><p>“Whomever they wish. My father used to worship the god of the Craftsmen. Weland. Most fisherfolk and sailors like Ouhri worship the god of the Sea. They call him Neptunius. They’ve got elaborate rituals and songs. Sometimes, when I’m at sea, I join in on them.”</p><p>“But you don’t believe in him?”</p><p>“Not really.” Looking at her, Florion smiled. But the rising wind brought the sound of the Temple bell. <em> I hate that I have to go I hate it I hate it what is wrong with me.  </em></p><p>Aoife didn’t say a thing, but disentangled herself from his embrace and took a step back. She heard the bell, too. </p><p>“We have to go,” he breathed out. “Don’t we.” Why was this so painful already. </p><p>“Not yet,” she whispered, and pulled him down by the collar. </p><p>He nearly wailed into the kiss. </p><p>If there truly was a god, a benevolent god that cared, he’d watch over her when Florion wasn’t around. He’d watch the sea and sink any ship that could possibly be bringing anyone, anyone wishing her harm, from across the ocean.  </p><p>With Boaldaen festivities approaching, and all the additional workload, neither of them would be able to sneak out during lunchtime, so they had to wait for the evening. </p><p>“Six of these. And ten of these,” Portionas said, unrolling the designs on the table. And sure enough, it was street lamps and twinkle lights for the festival. </p><p>Florion scratched his temple. “Do you have any from last year for scale? Or designs, at least.”</p><p>Each light had a tricky base for holding fuel. The balance seemed slightly off. He got some pencils and set out to correct it. </p><p>This, and the colors. </p><p>“Think they’re gone. Maybe hail. I’ll go inquire.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Florion nodded, propping the paper with weights. “I have to ask. Is there an objective reason why there is no electricity in Rheske?”</p><p>Portionas mumbled something under his breath and turned to leave. Florion stopped him by barring his way out.  </p><p>“Didn’t quite catch that.”</p><p>“I said, I heard that Kenn forbade it.”</p><p>Forbade? It was really rare for Kenn to have such strong opinions on anything. </p><p>Reaching for marble scissors to use them as a prop as well, Florion muttered, “I wonder if Coris feels slighted by this fact.” He’d have to remember to ask him next time. </p><p>Portionas raised his eyebrows. “Why would he? Kenn always knows better.”</p><p>Florion didn’t argue. Although he wanted to. He couldn’t shake off that little thing Aoife told him. How in human mythology there was a “horrible monster” with the same name. Seemed odd. But wouldn’t he be a hypocrite, telling her not to think about it, and then not following his own advice?  </p><p>“Anyway, I’ll ask Shay to help you once we’re done.”</p><p>“That would be most welcome.”</p><p>The boy came over in an hour to assist him, and soon Florion caught him staring again. He was used to it, but not when it jeopardized his work. </p><p>“Eyes on the punty, Shay, not on me.”</p><p>“Sorry,” the boy squealed. He looked full to bursting with words. Florion guessed that none of those were related to the craft. </p><p>After another hour of sideways glances and dropped instruments, he gave up. “What is it? You clearly want to ask something. So ask.”</p><p>Upon receiving his permission, Shay nearly screamed, “Sir, i-is it true that human women have teeth between their legs?!”</p><p>Sighing, Florion straightened his back and wiped the sweat off his neck. </p><p>Well, this was new. The “eating babies” one got too old too fast, huh? He wondered if he ought to tell Aoife about this one. </p><p>For a moment he thought if he should mess with the boy and tell him that not only they had teeth between their legs, but also horns on their heads, and tails on their asses. However, considering how fast gossip spread, and how much harm it could do... </p><p>“No, Shay, they really don’t. They’re just like our women.”</p><p>“But. Not even a little?”</p><p>“Not even a little.”</p><p>The boy looked extremely disappointed. “So what’s the point, then?”</p><p>Florion squinted. “The point?”</p><p>“Yeah, the point of you going with <em> her</em>.”</p><p>So everyone knew already. Figures.  </p><p>“Because I like her. Pass me those tweezers. No, the other pair. That’s the one.” </p><p>“But you can’t even have children with her no matter how hard you try. Right?”</p><p>“Right. But I’m going to try very, veeeery hard. Now. May we continue?”</p><p>Not that it was getting on his nerves or irritating him too intensely. He just really wanted to get back to work without distractions. It was hard enough not to think of Aoife all the time, because he already missed her madly, he didn’t need the addition of <em> this</em>. Plus, Florion had a nagging feeling that she wouldn’t like people talking in such a way about her. He sure didn’t. </p><p>Lack of sleep started to get to him in the middle of the afternoon, so he had to send Shay to the Temple apothecary to fetch something potent from their stock. </p><p>“Are you sure,” Shay started, looking at his instructions, “that it’s three parts gwaren, and not...”</p><p>“I’m sure,” Florion interrupted. “It’s mine.”</p><p>“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t...”</p><p>
  <em> Please just go already.  </em>
</p><p>He needed to get that distiller running as soon as possible.</p><p>The concoction felt like a punch in the gut and a slap in the face at the same time, but it helped. He got everything done by the end of the day, and practically ran to the square. Too early. None of the weavers were there yet, so he set to pacing. He didn’t even feel like refining the schematics in his notebook. The need to see Aoife felt nearly physical. Disruptive. He didn’t mind the feeling. In fact, he wanted more of it. <em> Selfish.  </em></p><p>In a quarter of an hour he ran to the privy and, just upon heading to wash his hands, found himself face to face with Curly again. Florion was hastily lacing his trousers back up and she eyed him suspiciously, head to, well, trousers. “What’s going on here?”</p><p>Florion said, “Right, well, if you <em> must </em>know, when a man and a large amount of water love each other very much...”</p><p>She groaned the loudest groan in history.</p><p>"Hey, I sort of feel bad for not knowing your name." Florion fully expected her to say something stupid in return. </p><p>But she said, “It’s Mahri.”</p><p>“Hi, Mahri. I’m Florion. Come here often?” he circled the view of the privy with a wide gesture, and grinned. She snorted at him ominously. </p><p>“I’m watching you!” she said. </p><p>“Thought you were watching my sailor friend.”</p><p>“Pshaw, him? He's been away too long. I already found someone better.” She waved a hand toward a young man, a kid, really, who was beaming and eagerly awaiting her return near the budding plum trees. Florion recognized him as one of the courier boys. In fact, he seemed to be the precise one who delivered the hairpin to Aoife. Nice chap. </p><p>“Well, I’d say he’s more age appropriate for you. Congratulations.”</p><p>There was also a <em> very </em>strong possibility that this boy was much more emotionally mature than Ouhri. </p><p>She indicated her eyes with her forefinger and pinky, then pointed them at his face. </p><p>“Watching you! And not in <em> that </em>sense!”</p><p>He wondered what Aoife thought of this little helper of hers. </p><p>“Careful, Mahri, or she might not pick you to be her Promise girl.”</p><p>Messing with her was easy, fun, and almost guilt-free. Her eyes shot open for a second, doe-like, but then she squinted at him again. </p><p>“You’ve been going with her for, like, four days, are you seriously saying you’re going to marry her? Isn’t it too early?”</p><p>Florion shrugged, “Anything is possible.” And turned to leave, chuckling to himself, and feeling no more than just a tiny bit guilty. It all reminded him of his exchanges with Lideo, except they were both bitter adults, and both knew they weren’t being serious when they called each other names. However… Sure, it was a fun game, but why was she like this, really? He turned back around, and called, “Hey, Mahri?”</p><p>“What!” she screamed, stamping her foot.</p><p>“Precisely why are you so worried about her in regards to me?”</p><p>Mahri’s expression flattened. She wasn’t pouting, squinting, or otherwise grimacing. Florion was quite surprised by this. Finally, she said, “‘Cause she’s suffered enough. Okay? And humans aren’t really… You know… Like us.”</p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>He stupidly thought of the size difference again. But surely that wasn’t what she’d meant. </p><p>“They don’t have the fix, they don’t have tethers, or anything like them. I’m pretty sure they can fall in love with only one person at a time. And they cry really, really hard if that person stops wanting them. Okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” he said calmly, without a hint of irony. “Well I haven’t fallen in love before. But now I’d rather think one is quite enough.” He didn’t add “...to make your heart feel like it’s about to explode,” although he wanted to. And the fix wasn’t working on him properly, anyway. </p><p>She shuffled her feet. “So you’re saying you’re in love with her?”</p><p>He lifted his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’ve been going with her for, what, four days? Isn’t it too early to tell?” </p><p>She said, “Arseface,” but smiled, and went to her boy, accompanied by Florion’s thunderous laughter. </p><p>It wasn’t too early to tell, though, not really. </p><p>When he got back, she was there. He saw Aoife from afar, near the dry fountain, and sped up. His heart was hammering. She practically jumped into his arms. If she still cared about other people being around, she didn’t show it. </p><p>“I’ve missed you <em> so much</em>,” Aoife whispered. She sounded scared, as if saying this out loud might cause her physical harm. </p><p>“Oh Aoife. I’ve missed you like crazy, too,” he told her between kisses. <em> For a moment there, I thought I was going insane.  </em></p><p>Suddenly, she drew back. “Do you think there’s something wrong with us?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Is there?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>But he thought he knew, and wondered if so did she. </p><p>There was a basket on the ground next to her. She reached for it and produced a foldable wooden board he recognized immediately. </p><p>“I found this in the storage room. Nobody wanted it, because the marbles are all gone. Plus, I don’t think anyone there knows how to play mancala anyway. So I thought...”</p><p>He kissed her again. Not to shut her up, but out of gratitude, for listening, for remembering. For caring. </p><p>“Will you teach me how to play?”</p><p>So she was thinking about how she wanted him to be her teacher. Florion nearly shivered from head to toes at the realisation. </p><p>“Of course I will. I’ll make the marbles tomorrow. But now,” he offered her his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”</p><p>“Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Yes. I am,” he said, and knew that both of them were remembering this morning and anticipating the night. </p><p>Instead of staying in the dining hall, they took the food and packed it into the very same basket, stopping at her cottage on the way home. While she was watering the plants, Florion, naturally, couldn’t help but sneak into her bedroom and get the book out again. </p><p>She noticed but didn’t object, a tiny adorable blush blooming on her cheeks. “I’ll have to return it soon,” Aoife said. </p><p>“I’ll order a reprint then,” he told her, as she was filling the watering can. He thought he heard her giggle. </p><p>He reread the text on page fourteen, trying not to groan. By gods, it was so badly written. Useful, though. One page was bookmarked with the note he’d left her three days ago. He studied the drawing, tracing its lines for a while, and wondering why this particular one didn’t do anything for him when he was young, and yet now… <em> O-o-oh</em>. If she didn’t ask for this one, he surely would, and soon.  </p><p>“All done,” Aoife said, and he raised his head and then, suddenly, Florion was looking directly at his <em> eighth</em>. Sprouted, growing well, in a simple pot on the windowsill of her kitchen. No. Not possible. Could it be possible? </p><p>“Aoife...” He was stumbling through words again. Too good to be true. “I can barely believe my… This plant. Where did you get this?” </p><p>“I took the seed,” she said immediately. “Or, maybe, stole it. From your stone bath. A day before you woke up. I saw it and I just一”</p><p>Dropping the book on the table, he darted forward and embraced her. It was a whirlwind of feelings. Gratitude, and happiness, and relief, so much relief. For having found it, and for the amazing luck of it being the eighth that she stumbled upon, without touching the others. </p><p>“My sweet, sweet girl… Thank you. Thank you so much.”</p><p>“So you know what that is,” she whispered back. </p><p>He nodded, beaming down at her. “I do. And I believe you did not steal it. I gave it to you.”</p><p>Kenn did not do this, he did this. He entrusted her with it, intentionally. For some reason, he believed that she should be the one to take it and care for it. He couldn’t claim to <em> know </em> his dream self; but at that moment Florion knew that he could at least trust that that unknowable part of him had good intentions. </p><p>Although he did not remember a thing, this must have been the truth.</p><p>“What… What should I do with it? Do you want it back?” </p><p>The sprout seemed well taken care of. </p><p>“Keep it for now. It’s undemanding, you don’t even have to water it every day. We’ll plant it in the garden behind the dreamer house later.”</p><p>She smiled back at him. “Together?”</p><p>“Together.”</p><p>He thought his elation contained but at home, when he drew a bath and plunged into it, relief enveloped him once again, along with the water. </p><p>When Aoife joined him later, instead of kissing her until their breath caught, he talked until his did. About how happy he was that she found it, how the caretakers denied its existence, how anxious he felt thinking it lost forever, how amazing this plant allegedly was, how it could change so many things, how一</p><p>“Florion,” she whispered, barely looking at him. </p><p>He shook his head like a wet canine, droplets of water flying everywhere. “I’m sorry. I talk too much, I know.” The concoction he took must have played a part, because he still felt jittery. </p><p>“No, it’s not that. In fact, I’m happy that you’re happy. I一” There was a little shy smile now stretching her lips. It intrigued him. He reached for soap and foamed some to spread over her shoulders and neck. She leaned into the touch. Was she reluctant to tell him more?</p><p>“What is it, then?” He pressed her down and back gently to lather her breasts. She closed her eyes, and a short moan escaped her lips. The beast was wide awake. </p><p>Aoife opened her eyes and leaned forward to slide her hands around his neck. “Tonight,” she whispered, “I want you inside of me. Please take me, Florion. Please make me yours.”</p><p>That shut him up. </p><p> </p><p>~*~</p><p>Once again, her hands were working but her mind was somewhere else. Afterwards, if anyone would have asked her what today’s book was about, she’d just make some ambiguous noises and turn away. She did not remember a single thing. They could have been reading the story of her life out loud, and she wouldn’t pay attention. </p><p>It physically hurt to be away from him. </p><p>
  <em> Not normal, not healthy, not good.  </em>
</p><p>The most peculiar thing was, she was sure he felt the same. Despite her nagging inner voice, despite the doubt gnawing at her constantly. He felt the same, there was no denying it. </p><p>
  <em> Dependent idiots. Not even a week.  </em>
</p><p>Each night she felt bolder with him. Each day she was more and more at peace in his presence, feeling like they didn’t even need to talk to be comfortable. And this morning一 </p><p>It felt like taking a leap. A leap she thought she’d regret, and, afterwards, would shame herself incessantly for taking. The latter did not happen. What did happen, however, was a high and bright ache between her legs that barely subsided during the day. Until she saw him, until she couldn’t take it any longer. Until she resolutely took another leap. </p><p>“Do you trust me?”</p><p>His bed, his arms, his lips. And a light on. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Then I’m going to ask you to do something, treasure,” he said in a low voice, rising above her, blocking the entire world from view. “When you’re about to come, you’ll ask me for permission to do so. And hold back unless I give one. Think you can do this?”</p><p>Aoife nodded, although she wasn’t really sure she would. </p><p>He brushed her lips with his thumb. </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>She was shaking all over. </p><p>“Relax. It’s me,” he said, and placed a gentle kiss on the line of her jaw, and then another, just below the dip of her collarbone, and another, on her throat. Yes, it was him, she reminded herself. His beautiful eyes, his smile, his scent; every line and contour of him, her desire come alive. And she wanted him here, wanted him with her, in her. But it was so hard not to be scared, sometimes. She needed a reminder of what it feels like to be safe. </p><p>She said, “Please, kiss me again,” voice shaking almost as much as her body did. </p><p>He kissed her mouth and then kissed more of her, and circled her nipple with his hungry tongue. He was so gentle, and so tender, and so slow. Afterward, there was a hundred feather-light kisses placed all over her neck, and breasts, and belly, and inner thighs; and a finger cut slowly into her like a knife into soft butter. They both inhaled in unison. </p><p>“You will not come without my permission,” he reminded her, finger moving slowly back and forth. She nodded, weakly. “Do you remember the word?”</p><p>“It’s “snowdrops”.”</p><p>“And when do you say it?”</p><p>She whispered back, voice breaking just a little, “When I want you to stop.”</p><p>“That’s a good girl,” his voice was almost as low as a growl, and then, suddenly, he wasn’t gentle anymore, and his tongue wasn’t drawing careful circles on her skin. It darted forward like a snake, and it began to lap at her cunt, already so wet, and two digits were inside, pistoning into her, sliding apart, stretching her. Now, she wasn’t really sure she’d given a promise she’d be able to keep. His masterful fingers and his probing tongue, they were getting her there as fast as lightning. She screamed through gritted teeth. </p><p>“Please, Florion. Please, may I come?”</p><p>He stopped, and he withdrew completely, and he rose above her on his elbow again, and mouthed a resounding, “No.”</p><p>Aoife whined, she reached for him, but he pinned her arms down, and he kissed her mouth. “It’ll be worth it.” </p><p><em> It </em> started all over again. Her, making tiny mewling noises and then erupting in loud, uncontrollable moans; him, kissing down her neck, and breasts, and ribs, and the frantically contracting muscles on her abdomen. This time, his tongue slipped inside of her, and his mouth enveloped her womanhood completely, and she was yelping and bunching the sheets in her fingers, knuckles white. No longer scared, no longer nervous, no longer thinking anything, except for <em> pleasepleaseplease. </em>She nearly broke her promise this time but, somehow, he sensed it, he knew the precise moment to pull off of her again, denying her his caresses, and smiling as he listened to the sounds that she was making. Her hips rose, seeking more of his touch, her legs, threatening to close to feel more pressure between them. </p><p>He brought her pelvis down with one firm motion of his arm, and opened her legs wider. </p><p>“Please,” she whispered. Not really a word but a gasp. </p><p>He said, “Not yet.”</p><p>Aoife trusted him, and she did give him her word, after all, but she was already so wet, so impossibly wet, and the ache between her legs was <em> unbearable. </em>And yet he did it once more. So careful, so vigilant of her reactions, so cruel, so lovely. </p><p>She felt delirious. She could no longer hear her own screams cresting, no longer felt anything except the need for his tongue, his fingers, his touch to never stop, <em> please, please don’t stop</em>. </p><p>She begged, and she screamed, and she called his name, and there was a moment somewhere in that timeless void of pleasure when she thought she would come only on his breath brushing skin, and then— He stopped. And he waited for her to slip down from near the boiling point, making shoushing sounds into her ear, keeping his hands away.</p><p>But when the whimpers died again, he rolled over her, fast as lightning, blocking all light this time, and held her legs apart, and thrusted his hips, and <em> slid </em> inside, a few inches on inertia alone, because he'd made her so open, so wet, so willing; keeping his fingers where their slightest movement made her yowl, and rubbing them, and <em> rubbing</em>. She barely had the time to register the invasion, and to discern pain from pleasure, and to separate them when—</p><p>“Now, come for me.”</p><p>Aoife <em> exploded </em> just as he was sinking deeper, on their combined moisture and her desire, overflowing. The delays made her so sensitive she felt like she was climaxing with every nerve and muscle of her body. He held her down, and enveloped her, and rocked her slowly, so slowly through it, and whispered <em> things </em>to her.  </p><p>"That's it, Aoife. Come. Come on my cock. Gods, I wanted this so much. So. Much."</p><p>He kissed away the tears streaming down her cheeks, and then he started moving faster, yet still ever so unhurriedly, riding all the way down on the waves of her orgasm. </p><p>“So warm inside of you,” he said and kissed her deeply, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. </p><p>Was it really her, or was it him that was <em> molten</em>? It burned, and it ached, and it felt so good, and she found herself being stretched maddeningly past the burn, and the sensation of having him inside was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, or anticipated, or expected. There was a primal, instinctive <em> need </em> to take him deeper, and it felt like thirst coming from between her legs, still unquenched.</p><p>“Please, Florion,” she called again, for what must have been a hundredth time this night. “Deeper.”</p><p>This time, he listened and did as she asked. Just an inch more, but Aoife gasped for air, and then gasped again, when he swung back, and lifted her legs under the knees, and brought them up. It hurt, but she didn’t want him to stop, because the pain felt so very good. </p><p>Looking at him now, and at his skin glistening with sweat, reflecting the light of the single dim lamp, and at his abs tensing, and narrow hips rolling, hurt too, because it always hurts to look directly at things that are this beautiful.  </p><p>Mirroring her thoughts, he said, “So beautiful,” the exact same way he did in the dream, but she didn’t even have to think for too long to compare the rest and to arrive at a conclusion. This felt so much brighter, and sharper, and sweeter. And real, so real.  </p><p>Wishing she could take him even deeper, she rose on her shaking, weak elbows to see down. The sight of him sliding his glistening cock inside of her was mesmerizing. </p><p>“Yes, watch it, sweet thing. Watch. So tight, so wet for me, you feel so good.”</p><p>He was barely halfway in, but Aoife felt so very avid for more. It seemed that he wanted that, too, but was controlling himself, wary and careful and slow. </p><p>And then he threw his head back, and moaned, full on <em> moaned, </em>hips bucking, hands grasping, mouth open, eyes shut. He looked so ethereally lovely now, stray locks falling onto his shoulders, sweat streaming down his neck. </p><p>“S-s-so good. You feel so good, Aoife. M-m-want to come inside of you so bad…”</p><p>It didn’t feel unfair that <em> he </em>wasn’t holding back. She liked that he held power over her, she liked that he was in control, and that she’d been the one to choose to give him both, yet again, and, most of all, she liked seeing him like this, lost in rapture above her, breathing those little hitching breaths. She thought, “I made him feel that,” and almost believed it this time. </p><p>So then she said, “Please come inside me.”</p><p>He mouthed, “Oh gods.” </p><p>Aoife called out for him in return, because she didn’t believe in any other gods but Florion. He roared, gripping her hips tighter with his fingers for a moment, and then brought one to her lips and slid it into her mouth, and she sucked on it greedily, whimpering, and kept her eyes locked on his as he was coming into her in deep, long, boiling hot spurts, and making sounds that, she decided, were now her favourite sounds ever.  </p><p>He didn’t linger inside, and withdrew immediately, and yes, it hurt, but it was also an unexpectedly grave sensation, no longer being filled. The separation felt a lot like pulling elanthie stalks out of your wrist vein. Two different kinds of pain washing over you at once. One, only physical, and faint, and fleeting, once given time. The other, of a nature she couldn’t have explained to Florion, because she couldn’t explain it to herself. Not yet, at least. </p><p>When he held her close, the latter of the two subsided, if only a little. Then, visibly concerned, he kissed her cheek and asked, “Did I hurt you?” </p><p>Not in the way she expected to be hurt. Rather, staying away from him now would be a promise of pain too unbearable to even think about.  </p><p>She said, “Only a little.” </p><p>Later on, when they’ve both successfully untangled their limbs, and crawled out to wash, and Aoife was done being pleasantly horrified at the amount of seed flowing out of her, and they collapsed back on the bed, she remembered and, suddenly, she started laughing.   </p><p>“What?” Florion circled her hip lazily with the tips of his fingers. </p><p>Aoife, choking on laughter, quoted in as low a voice as she could manage, “‘Pa-a-age fourte-e-e-en! How to make a maiden’s first time intensely pleasurable, in three easy steps!’”</p><p>He rolled onto his back and growled, and smiled, and she knew she was right.</p><p>“What can I say. I tried to follow all three in perfect order. But,” he trailed off and vaguely waved his hand at the words getting away. </p><p>Aoife caught them, “But the maiden in question was probably supposed to be seven feet tall.” </p><p>“So what if she was,” Florion responded, and threw an arm across her chest, and pulled her in. “Who cares. I’m happy with the one I’ve got right here. Is she happy with me and page fourteen?”</p><p>This was everything she’d wanted it to be and more. Although still too self-conscious to enjoy herself without question, too sore from being stretched past her limit, she saw the promise and it intrigued her oh so much.  </p><p>“She is.” </p><p>Happy. <em> I’ll learn. </em></p><p>Aoife turned her back to him, and moved even closer, until he was nuzzling her shoulder, and holding her tight, their contours fused together. </p><p>“So you’ve managed to read the text, too.” He sounded odd, and this oddness felt familiar.</p><p>She attempted to ignore it. Her head wasn’t working properly at the moment, after all. “Yes. Once you get past the fact that it’s, well, horrible writing… It’s actually quite educational.”</p><p>“And so it is.”</p><p>No, it was definitely there again. Him being shy. Surely, not after what’s happened here, and everything that came (so hard and messily) the nights before. </p><p>She couldn’t help but ask, “Why do you sound like this? It’s not the first time… And I know it’s not the shame because you barely have any. You sound. Well. Shy.”</p><p>“Do I?” He kissed her shoulder. And then he mused for a few moments. “Because,” he finally told her, “I really, really don’t want to blow it.”</p><p>Aoife could not believe her ears. Did he not realise? </p><p>She turned completely to look into his eyes, to reach for him, to brush his hair with her fingers, to touch his lips. </p><p>“But. You can’t. It’s impossible.”</p><p>He drew slightly back and arched one eyebrow at her. “That so?”</p><p>How could even Florion, with his seemingly untroubled self-confidence that she envied, think that he could “blow it” by saying or doing something stupid? Was no one truly confident? She was so enamoured with him it hurt, surely he could see, surely he knew.  </p><p>From the very first moment she saw him, she wanted to be his, only his, although it took her a while to realise the nature of her feelings, because she’d never felt so drawn to any man in her life. And if there was initially a part of her that assigned all of these feelings to physical attraction, now she knew for sure that it wasn’t just the latter. No, Florion wasn’t any of those things Maeve said people found attractive in dreamers. He wasn’t “aloof and mysterious”. Florion was kind, and caring, and tender, and funny, and protective, and she felt like she could trust him with anything, and his hands created works of art, and she wanted to tell him all of these things, and more, not because he needed to hear them to feel better, but simply because she wanted to say them out loud. </p><p>But it’s been only a few days, and she was already breaking all of the rules, and instead the only thing that Aoife could manage without shame was, “You’re not getting rid of me this easily.”</p><p>He stared into her face for what felt like a whole minute, not speaking, barely blinking. She managed not to avert her eyes, despite how hard it was for her. His golden gaze seemed piercing.  </p><p>Finally, she couldn’t take it. “Florion?” </p><p>“Aoife,” he whispered back. “My treasure. I feel like a madman. Forgive me. This fear is irrational. And perhaps it is the memories that I’ve lost. But it feels like something more. It feels like...” <em> Like I’ve known you for much longer than I actually did, </em>Aoife finished in her head, absentmindedly, while he was gathering his thoughts. “It feels like I’ve known you before and already lost you once.” </p><p>She reached to cup his cheek. Wanting to say, truthfully, that she felt the same and, yet again, not saying it.  </p><p>“Maybe you did know me. Maybe, in some other life.”</p><p>The aldamaari did believe in reincarnation. It was, after all, one of the very few unifying features in their bizarre religion that appeared, otherwise, to be all over the place, and made very little sense. And she wanted to, as well. It would have been so poetic. So exciting. Just like in their romantic tales. Two souls, reborn again and again to find each other in every new life, to spend them together.  </p><p>
  <em> Bullshit. There are no things as poetic as this.  </em>
</p><p>The almost imperceptible shake of his head seemed to indicate that he agreed with her inner voice, but he did not argue. “I would like to believe,” Florion told her, inadvertently echoing her thoughts again. “But more than that, I’d like to know the truth. And yet until I do. I’m free to believe whatever I want to believe.”</p><p>Maybe she wasn’t the only person in the room who had lost the faith in higher powers, miracles and magic at some point.   </p><p>“The only thing I know for certain is that I want you by my side.” Florion reached to kiss her. </p><p><em> The only thing I know for certain is that I’m in love with you</em>, she thought, <em> and I so wish I could be comfortable with telling you this and more, and not feel like an idiot for doing it so soon.  </em></p><p>But she did try to convey the feeling with her kisses. After all, Florion was so good at reading between the lines. </p><p>Another thing for certain was that he wanted her again. She felt him, hard and pulsing against her hip. Aoife reached for his manhood and squeezed it, eliciting a sharp exhale from him.  </p><p>He muttered, “Busted.” </p><p>“So when,” she started, timidly, as he was nuzzling her cheek, “when can we. You know. Do this. Again.”</p><p>Florion chuckled against her neck, his hoarse laughter reverberating through the whole of her body.  </p><p>“Such a hungry, greedy girl—<em> tsk-tsk,</em>” he teased, tickling her lightly, and she giggled. “Let’s see how you feel tomorrow. And we’ll decide then.” She couldn’t help but whine a little, and he laughed once more, pressing her close. </p><p>He sounded worn off. How many hours of sleep did he get last night? Was it four?</p><p>“I have the same fear, you know,” she managed to confess. “Of... blowing it.”</p><p>“But that’s,” he told her with a tired smile, “impossible, Aoife.”</p><p>He didn’t elaborate. He looked touched, and tender. And exhausted. </p><p>“I think you need sleep,” she told him. </p><p>“I really do,” Florion admitted. “I’m sorry if I woke you last night. I’m sorry if I will again.”</p><p>She was no stranger to insomnia, and to troubled dreams, and still remembered him waking up screaming the night before. </p><p>“It’s alright, Florion. Sleep.”</p><p>She stroked his hair. His beautiful eyes were on the verge of closing. It looked like her permission was all it took for him to let go. </p><p>“I am… Already… So terrified of losing you… I wonder...” he muttered, and then his breathing changed, chest rising and descending slowly. He was asleep. </p><p>“I think I’m in love with you,” she said as quietly as she could, and got up to blow out the lamp. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags: Insomnia, Cock Worship, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial/Edging, Loss of Virginity, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Fear of Loss, Insecurities.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. The Promises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Are these flashbacks here for the unending torturous exposition? Find out more after a break.<br/>*What’s for breakfast? Oh nothing much, just kipper, pancakes and cock worship.<br/>*How to deflower (pun not intended) a girl painlessly? Turns out it’s edging and orgasm denial! Do YOU have the patience for it? Read page 14 to find out, now with diagrams.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Such is the way their children are treated: at age three they are taken from their mothers for the duration of each day and placed in what is called “infanvart” with many nurses of both sexes caring for them and letting them play, boys and girls together, in the spacious back gardens. At age five or six they are to attend a school in which they stay every day, and learn letters, numbers and sciences until the age of fourteen or fifteen, with no exceptions. From what I have seen, the children are not whipped or disciplined for their many wrongdoings. During these years, none of the children perform any obligatory labours and seem to be considered free of the necessity to do so, although they often take on apprenticeships with craftsmen.” </em>
</p><p>He is fourteen years old. Between his apprenticeship, his regular studies and learning everything there is to learn about botany from an old herbalist down at the Iquinous Third Temple Clinic, he barely has time for games and entertainment. It’s not too bad. Florion likes to learn and discover new things every single day, and he doesn’t mind being in the company of only his father, or Ouhri, or one of the teachers. He’s avoiding team sports and festivals. He can't be avoiding people entirely. He does want someone by his side, always. It’s just that dad says it’s a responsible thing to do from now on, and Florion trusts him. Humans intrigue him. They tend to avoid crowds, as well, although he does not know their reasoning yet. They’re white, but turn red if they spend too much time in the sun. Also, they’re the same height as him. At least until he hits his growth spurt. Humans tell scary stories that keep him awake at night. These tales can’t be true, of course. </p><p>Florion doesn’t know he’s an <em> aberration </em> yet. Sometimes he feels really angry, or really sad, or really worried about something insignificant, but it never lasts long. Dad is openly proud to have a son, an apprentice, and a gifted <em> chosen </em> prodigy, all in one. Florion grows up loved, well cared for, educated and respected for the role he is to play. </p><p>Something is missing. Something substantial. And it’s not <em> crowds. </em> </p><p>Another summer spent in Rheske is bright, humid, and smells of seashells, crushed mulberries and library books.  </p><p>People bow on the streets. On Worship day a pretty girl approaches him. She’s much older, experienced, very handsy but patient enough. He’s overwhelmed and dizzy, and a little too eager, and selfish. It works out, but she doesn’t want anything else from him. “You’re not staying, after all.” </p><p>“What if I do,” he probes. He likes Rheske. He’d move here for good if dad agreed for them to move. </p><p>“I mean, you’re not staying awake.”</p><p>Dad was right. </p><p>Next week, Florion invites Lideora to dance, hoping it would stop her from giving him the stink-eye for once, and she accepts, but this time it doesn’t work out in the slightest. </p><p>“Don’t like this,” she says frowning in disgust and pushing him away. </p><p>“What?” he asks, half-naked, drunk, and a little disgusted with himself now, as well. </p><p>“This. Your thing. Don’t like it at all,” she declares. </p><p>“Well, fine!” Florion yells and pulls his breeches up. “Wanna be friends?” They are going to be dreamers together, after all. </p><p>“Fuck off, Rosebush.”</p><p>A day or two later she shows him a nice spot to read in. It’s full of shade and flowers. “Looks like your type of shithole. Also, would you stop with this Lideora crap? It’s just Lideo, okay?” So he guesses they are friends now. </p><p>Behind the spot, strolling all alone, Florion finds an overgrown goat path, and at the end of it, an impossibly smooth circular black stone in the rock wall. Nothing grows on it, nothing seems to stain it. He winces beforehand and touches it just to find out how hot it is. It’s cold as ice. </p><p>
  <em> I hath become life.  </em>
</p><p>This is how it starts, or continues, or ends. </p><p>He’s twenty seven, give or take a few. A girl he’s crazy for sleeps next to him, his protective arm around her mutilated back. Nothing should be missing. </p><p>And there’s a bright golden light in the distance, and he begins to walk towards it. Although, no matter how many steps he takes, he isn’t getting any closer. </p><p>Why were you ready for my requests this time, o cruel god of my slumber, why so eager to give me what I asked for, are you capable of hate, are they right about you?  </p><p>
  <em> Protect her.  </em>
</p><p>What is it about her, then? Tell me, almighty, tell me now. Is she some kind of a saviour, a messenger, a diplomat?  </p><p>
  <em> Serve me. Protect her.  </em>
</p><p>Or what. </p><p>
  <em> Or I will die.  </em>
</p><p>Gods do not die. They dwell in their domains, indifferent and eternal, as life begins and ends around them, and blink once as a millennium passes. Do not lie to me. You crave my mind. You demand I become a murderer, do not dare lie to me. </p><p>
  <em> I will take your world with me.  </em>
</p><p>Florion screams into the golden light, “What is she to you? Why is it always some holy mission with you? Why can’t you let me be me, why can’t you let her just be her?” Please, why can’t I be normal and happy, happy and <em> normal</em>.  </p><p>But his god is silent once more. </p><p>The golden light goes out. No, it doesn’t. It is obscured by a short man with bushy eyebrows, obnoxious smile and strangely stooped posture. As if he spent his whole life sitting down and has just gotten up. </p><p>“Out of my way!” Florion reaches to push him away. </p><p>The man lifts both hands. His attire is strange and sleeveless. His skin is white. </p><p>“Hey, no offense, big guy, but you really can’t go any further, m-m-kay?” </p><p>Florion screams and swings his fist. It goes right through the man. </p><p>“Between you and me though, bud. She’s perfectly capable of protecting herself. That murdering shit, as well, but yeah, D-A-R-K.” The man touches his temple with an outstretched finger, and it’s no longer a stranger Florion sees, but his father. “Be a good boy and skedaddle for now,” he says in the stranger’s voice. </p><p>A woman is crying. Thunder cracks its whip. The lighthouse was never a lighthouse. </p><p>He is no more.  </p><p> </p><p>Florion slept soundly until morning and didn’t retain much when he opened his eyes but, in his defense, it was too nice a way of waking up to remember nightmares. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Aoife’s throat felt raw and hoarse, and it actually did hurt to walk. So this was two promises he’d kept already. Her jaw ached dully as well, and she flinched as she was rinsing her mouth.  </p><p>The definitions were blurred. Was it weeks ago, when he’d taken her in the dream? Was it days ago, in the bathhouse, when he did things to her with his tongue? Or was it yesterday? Or maybe, just maybe, none of it actually mattered in regards to her becoming a woman. Maybe she’d become one long ago, that first night in the black cell, or any of the subsequent ones. Or on that afternoon when she’d stepped over the doorway of a little stone cottage. If she had to choose at all, she’d choose the latter. </p><p>But sex was nice. She liked it very much. She wanted more of it. To test, to try, to explore, with him. </p><p>Aoife came back on tiptoes and slipped into the bed. He had thrown his covers off, one arm over his forehead, face untroubled but for a tiny crease on his brow. </p><p>“Oh, Florion,” she muttered. His light green skin appeared iridescent in the morning light, and he looked so beautiful it absurdly made her want to scream. For a moment she was reminded of those hours in the caverns when she sat by his side and looked at him, and sang to him, aching to touch but not daring to. </p><p>It was alright to touch him now. This was allowed.</p><p>She traced his collarbone with the tip of her forefinger, and then lower, to feel his heartbeat prickle it. None of the marks left by her overeager lips and teeth remained on his skin now, he healed so fast. No scars, no markings, nothing but that beautiful three-petaled snowdrop. </p><p>Wondering if these were as sensitive as hers, Aoife stroked his nipples. She touched one with her tongue, as well, and it stiffened. She’d have to test more to find out just how sensitive. Later. </p><p>Florion tasted and smelled so good, so comforting, so familiar that she couldn’t help but taste more of him, forgetting for a moment that it might wake him up. His manhood lay limp, but, after kissing slowly down his belly, she licked it nonetheless and then took it into her mouth, sucking it in and feeling it come alive and harden slowly between her lips. It felt like discovering something absolutely amazing, and Aoife kept at it, greedily, until she had to pull back a little because it no longer fit. Then a palm descended onto her head, and Aoife gasped and raised it.</p><p>Florion was looking down at her, one eye open, lips smirking lazily; sleepy, and beautiful, and adorably smug. </p><p>Not pressing his hand down, he simply held it lightly over her hair, but she sank, humming, mouth open, taking him in, and he groaned, biting his lip. </p><p>
  <em> Everything hurts, and I’m just asking for trouble. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care  </em>
</p><p>His hand snaked down her back, pulled the nightgown up, and it alone made her shiver all over. She hadn’t even realised the level of her own arousal. </p><p>“M-hey, you.” Oh for the love of everything that is holy. She was so wet she could <em> hear </em>his fingers touching her down there. Aoife pulled up, gasping for air, and straightened, and arched her back, absentmindedly trying to impale herself on his fingers. She succeeded, but it was the wrong thing to do. </p><p>“Ow.” </p><p>“Hurts?”</p><p>“Yes,” she admitted. “I want to… Just… Don’t… Not… Inside…” So hard to breathe properly. </p><p>He nodded, and he stopped, and lay unmoving for a second, and then what seemed to be a blur flashed before her eyes, and Florion was behind her, pressing her softly down until her elbows hit the sheets, and her face was in his pillow. Still so warm, still smelling of him. </p><p>“Legs together,” he told her, pushing on her hips gently. Having no idea what he was planning on doing, she obeyed. <em> I don’t care. </em>His cock slipped between her thighs, and for a moment she thought he’d disregard her plea, but he didn’t, simply rubbing it slowly against her folds, once, twice. So big, so boiling hot, so hard, so— </p><p>“A-a-h, f—Drat, please, more, please!” She wailed into the pillow, feeling his pulse between her legs. </p><p>He bunched the fabric on her back and pulled her up by it. She wouldn’t have minded if it was her hair instead. </p><p>“Want to hear you sing,” he groaned. “Don’t bite into it.”</p><p>It started slow, but she brought her hand down to press him closer, and squeezed her legs tighter, and he was relentless, and she was insanely wet, and the avalanche was on its way.  </p><p>“Florion—” It might have hurt a lot now if they attempted it, but she knew she’d love it like this. Him taking her from behind, his hands free to roam and grab and press into her skin almost painfully. “Please, please, <em>please</em>.” </p><p>“No holds barred now, come on, let me see it. Let me hear it,” he crooned as he moved his hips, again, and again, and again.  </p><p>“Don’t… Stop...”</p><p>“I won't,” he said, and then his palm was around her neck, and squeezed the sides, and her vision blurred, and—</p><p>She let him hear it all. Aoife loved to sing for him, and he was a very appreciative listener...  </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Are you sure,” she asked as he was brushing her hair, “that you’re okay with it?”</p><p>“Hm-m?” </p><p>“You… You spend a lot of time with just me,” she said. “I’ve never...” His hands felt so good. She sighed contentedly, unable to speak for a moment. </p><p>“Never what,” Florion pressed. </p><p>“With your people, it’s never just one on one. Your celebrations, your grieving, even your dating, sometimes, it’s always public, always a lot of people involved.”</p><p>“Yes,” he said simply. “I don’t like it.”</p><p>“You don’t like it?” Aoife echoed. “Truly?”</p><p>“Truly. Is this something that scares you?”</p><p>“No. Yes... Just surprises me,” she admitted. “Leave it down. Here, I’ll do yours.” They exchanged places. He had to pull up a chair and sit down for her to return the favor. </p><p>“Well. Adronion’s granddaughter told you we’re different, didn’t she?”</p><p>Aoife winced slightly. That conversation was still a fresh and unpleasant memory. “Yes. She also said you’re always alone.”</p><p>“Not entirely by choice,” Florion responded. “But. I come here alone each year, and I hide in my room. So. I guess. Maybe that’s how I’m different?” </p><p>His hair was so healthy and thick. In passing, she wondered how it was possible, what with the entirety of it being stuck underwater for three months. </p><p>“Does being in a crowd tire you?” Because it was something that made her feel exhausted very fast. </p><p>“No, not at all. It’s just... I’m fine with it. I’m going under every year. And they know it. And I know that they know.” He paused and exhaled heavily before saying:  “And… Aoife, I’m s—”</p><p>She cut him off. “Don’t.” She knew perfectly well what he was about to say. It’s not that she didn’t think about it. She did, at length. Naturally, so did he. “And so you are. Going under. So what. It’s months away.”</p><p>“Yes,” Florion said somewhat reluctantly. </p><p>“Please, may we just take it one day at a time for now?” she pleaded with him. </p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“Wait, is this why you also have only one close friend?”</p><p>“One close friend who’s barely there, too. Yes. What about you?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Aoife divided his hair, lock by shiny lock, and brushed them separately. “I have one really good friend, too. But she’s very young and a bit of an airhead.”</p><p>“One <em> savage </em> airhead!”  </p><p>“Sorry about the staring and. Ugh.” </p><p>He said, “It’s no trouble. She’s not nearly as intimidating as she thinks she is. And she cares for you. Very much.” It felt like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. No matter, it could wait. Everything could wait. They had time.  </p><p>Aoife went on, “I suppose I like being among people. If they are nice. Which is nearly everyone here. I’m really well off on my own though. Mentally. But… I like being with you.”</p><p>“I like being with you, too,” he said, more quiet than usual. It did not sound playful or suggestive at all. </p><p>She passed the brush for him to hold on to and started braiding his hair into a fishtail carefully, from the very top, the way a long lost childhood friend taught her once, one strand after another. This way he could easily fold it down and under if need be. </p><p>“This is going to take a while,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”</p><p>He chuckled and reached back to touch her wrist. “I don’t mind at all.”</p><p>She thought she’d remembered the proper way, but the process was slow. Excessive zeal forced her to stick out her tongue a little. </p><p>For a while they weren’t talking. He barely moved. Aoife had a feeling he was expecting her to continue, not wanting to spook her. </p><p>“Listen,” she started, not knowing exactly how to say it, because, for just a moment, it seemed such a silly thing to say. “Would it be possible for me to also be your friend? I mean, friend in addition to… You know.”</p><p>He chuckled again, and she heard genuine joy. She felt relief. Aoife wanted him as a lover, but she liked to spend time with him outside of the bed, as well. </p><p>“What makes you think it wouldn’t be possible?”</p><p>What <em> did </em> make her think that? “My upbringing, I suppose. It’s not very common… I mean it’s actually absolutely uncommon to… For...” She trailed away. </p><p>He sighed and finished for her, “For a man and a woman who are sleeping together to also be friends. At least, according to the humans I’ve met.”</p><p>“Yes. It’s, uhm, a tradition, I suppose.”</p><p>“A dumb one. But I think I know why it exists.”</p><p>Aoife actually never gave the possible reason much thought.    </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It’s about power dynamics,” he adjusted his neck slightly to give her better access to the underside of his dark viridian mane, “Friends are equals. And with what you told me about,” he pushed the word “whorehouse” out with substantial disgust and also a thick accent. “Well. As that would mean losing what little control and power they have. I think human men don’t want to tilt the scales at all.”</p><p>“No, they do not.” </p><p>“I feel like it’s going to backfire on them at some point.”</p><p>She couldn’t help but smile. “I admire your optimism.”</p><p>“But you don’t share it.” </p><p>“Not now, not with what I’ve seen. Hold on.” Aoife yanked a ribbon with her teeth and tied it at the bottom of the braid. “All done.”</p><p>“Thank you.” He pulled her wrist to his mouth and kissed it, and then kissed up her elbow, and pulled harder, and in a second she was in his lap. “Hey, friend,” he said, smiling brightly. “So what are you doing tonight?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know.” She made a silly face and smiled back. “A friend promised to teach me a game I’ll probably be bad at.”</p><p>His face lit up. He must have forgotten about the board until now. Frankly, so did she. “That’s an amazing idea! And I love winning at mancala! Seventh bell, the square?” </p><p>“Sure. But,” she started, tracing his jaw with her fingers, “I also wouldn’t mind if this friend sticks his. Uhm, tongue. Places.”</p><p>“Repeatedly,” he agreed and reached to kiss her, but stopped quite abruptly. “I feel like there is something else you want to say. Think you could?”</p><p>She averted her eyes. This was hard. “Yes, it’s about last night.”</p><p>“What about it?”</p><p>Simply averting them didn’t feel like enough, she felt like shutting her eyes, too, but stubbornly kept them open. “I liked it… I liked it very much.” </p><p>“So did I.” He smiled but kept expecting more and, naturally, was right to. </p><p>“What you said about this “power dynamic”. And what you did last night. So good. I—” Oh drat, not just hard, impossible to speak out loud. <em> Help. </em>He studied her expression and, after a few moments, he did help. </p><p>“You like me rough, don’t you,” Florion said, circling her waist and pulling her close by it. She nodded cautiously. “You like it when I’m possessive. And dominating.” </p><p>There were no words to express just how much. This one should do. Just like it did when he asked her in the dream. “Y-yes.”</p><p>“And I like being that with you. Feels natural. You said you trust me. We’ve got the word. What exactly worries you?”</p><p>“C-can we still be friends? Even with that? You just said that friends are equals. Isn’t there a contradiction?”</p><p>“I don’t see one. I’ll only take what I’m given, not an ounce more.”</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “I promise.”</p><p>So far it seemed like he was very good at keeping promises. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Florion’s god was very good at keeping promises. He was a god of limits and precisely measured gifts, a god of calculated utility. Up until recently. It did not matter that he didn’t want to be a god at all. He was one. And a very bad god, at that. Florion hated him for his antics. <em> Own the fuck up. </em>He hated having to lie to Aoife. Or, rather, to conceal, hold back and speak in half-truths with her. </p><p>And his peers hated him for bolting for a whole hour in the middle of the day with so little time at their disposal and so much work yet to be completed, but he had to do this. </p><p>It started as he was sorting through instruments in the back room and heard a bee or wasp buzzing around, and opened the window wider to chase the insect out, and finally, with a grave sensation in his stomach that flowed slowly down to his knees and weakened them, he remembered one missing piece. A <em> visitation</em>. </p><p>Was there something flying around his room the night before, as well? And the night before that?</p><p>Having recently decided he would not have any interactions with the caretakers until winter, Florion went to see the High Priestess instead. </p><p>He pleaded with Drifeo after once again closing the door behind him. The door that normally stood ajar. “How much am I actually allowed to tell her?”</p><p>“As little as possible. That is to say, nothing that she doesn’t already know.”</p><p>It was driving him mad. Aoife needed to meet his god. If there was a chance to make things clear, he’d take it. </p><p>“Test her now. Please,” he begged the High Priestess. </p><p>Say <em> don’t rush</em>, woman, I dare you to say it. </p><p>She simply stared at him for a long time instead, silent and relentless.    </p><p>“I cannot,” Drifeo finally mouthed. “I’m sorry, I cannot.”</p><p>“But she is fairly talented and—”</p><p>“It’s not about her talent, boy!” He’d never had the High Priestess shout at him, yet here she was. Here they both were. “I told you I will test her when he allows it. Did I not?”</p><p>And so she did. </p><p>He shut his eyes for a moment and then started speaking. “If you care for one tree, are you it's god? No. You are a very shitty gardener. If you guide an entire nation in everything they do, and control what they can and cannot have, and say, and act upon, are you it’s god? Maybe. But most of all, you are a tyrant.”</p><p>“And you think you’re the first one to say it? To think it?” </p><p>He persisted, “Of course I’m not. That’s not the point.”</p><p>Drifeo told him cryptically, “The point is that the truth you know is but a drop in the ocean.”</p><p>“And the truth <em> you </em> know,” Florion spit out, scowling at her, “and the rate at which you are allowed to dispense it is controlled by whom, exactly?”</p><p>She stared at him again, old, and gray, and frail, and tired. “It wasn’t like this before, you know,” Drifeo said somewhat reluctantly after a long pause. </p><p>“Meaning?” </p><p>“He wasn’t as controlling up until a few decades ago. Or picky. He was barely there. He never intervened, never dictated, never even asked for anything, except for the usual.”</p><p>Ah, the usual. <em> Do not worship me. I am not your god. Have your gifts. Right then, bye.  </em></p><p>“When did the change happen?”</p><p>“It got worse not long before you passed your test.”</p><p>He never knew. He never even suspected this. Wasn’t it also not long after his people started accepting human refugees? </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>She shook her head. </p><p>“You know, don’t you?”</p><p>“Maybe I do. I know for sure, however, that everything is supposed to get much better soon. Would you believe me if I told you that you should not worry about it?”</p><p>Florion looked at her intently. Was that even a real question? After what he’d been tasked with last winter? </p><p>“No. No, I would not.” </p><p>His god was a trickster. A bad one, as well. It wasn’t the Head Librarian who’d made the decision. It was Kenn, sending his will through the old man, to have Florion go back to him, and ask for what he was already planning to bestow. A loop. </p><p>Did Florion have proof of this? No, he did not. Would he swear by it if asked? Yes, he would. Nothing but a hunch, and yet he lived like this, observing, going from one hunch to another, and being usually very right and very bitter about it. </p><p>And another thing. Drifeo knew that Aoife was a dreamer for <em> decades. </em>The woman wasn’t a magician. It was Kenn who told her, it must have been. </p><p>Besides other things <em> so sweet so kind so lovely</em>, Aoife was a smart girl. She’d piece the truth together, probably long before she’d be put to a test. Maybe not all by herself. Maybe from accidentally dropped hints, and gossip, and everyone’s careless indiscretion. His only hope was, she would not hold this against him, that he wasn’t allowed to tell her a truth so simple. The worst kept secret of his people.  </p><p>But this wasn’t what’s been eating at him the most. </p><p>He did want to ask the High Priestess. “I’m pretty sure he’s visiting me and he wants something from me, and I do not understand what, because he’s very bad at conveying it, and because I don’t remember much of my dreams, and it’s driving me insane,” he would say. But Florion didn’t. He strongly suspected Drifeo did not have an answer, and if by some miracle she did, she would not have given it. And he would have probably broken something valuable in her neat spacious study right after receiving another empty <em> Don’t rush.  </em></p><p>His god was good at timing his interactions. Up until recently. Florion and his peers had his undivided attention in winter, and he left them alone during other seasons. They did not know precisely how the caretakers and the clergy communicated with him, because they didn’t need to know, or because they weren’t allowed, or because it didn’t matter. Mayhaps Kenn simply didn’t have the means to convey the message clearly to him now. Mayhaps he wanted Florion to reach out. He did not know, he did not remember how to do the latter. So he waited for the night and dreaded the dreams that would come and, surely, leave by dawn. </p><p>It wasn’t a nice feeling at all. It wasn’t a nice life at all. </p><p><em> “Please, may we just take it one day at a time for now?” </em>Aoife told him just this morning. Did she truly mean it? Was she able to? He wanted to believe she was. And, if so, she was right, and he was a fool. </p><p>But he’d do his best to try. </p><p>Florion made the mancala stones, and he grabbed a bag of the prettiest marbles he had, too, because he wanted her to look at them and smile. She did. And she won the very first serious game they played after he taught her the basics, and he jokingly said he doesn’t like mancala anymore, so Aoife bit him on the nose, and his neck, and his collarbone, and then started undressing him, and slipped out of his hands, cackling madly, and they played marbles in the hallway instead, half naked and howling with laughter, and he tripped on one and fell, and she climbed on top of him and kissed the curses off his lips. </p><p>
  <em> Normal and happy.  </em>
</p><p>They made each other come with their hands, because they liked looking into each other’s eyes while doing it. He made her come again, and then once more, with his fingers and his tongue, because he liked the taste of her and the sounds that she was making. Each subsequent peak reached left her a little more spent, helpless, limp, until she all but blacked out in his arms, drifting into a deep sleep, yet he lay awake, waiting for the lamp to go out and sorting the past few days in his mind. </p><p>And keeping an ear out for buzzing. </p><p>It did not arrive. The only sounds in the room were Aoife’s steady breathing by his side and barely audible music and cheering brought by the wind from down below. Someone started celebrating Boaldaen way too early. </p><p>This is when he would have approached and asked her, if not for last Worship day. During the festival. There was no reality existing in his mind where he would not have done it at all. As if it was preordained, unavoidable, inevitable. Florion thought that even if it was, he didn’t mind. </p><p>He did not dream that night at all. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Well?” Mahri’s hair was meticulously straightened, combed back and hidden under a kerchief. This alone helped Aoife realise what they were doing today, and made her feel excitement. A nice change of pace from all the cleaning and gardening, at least. </p><p>Florion brushed her hair in the morning again, but she asked him to leave it down, once more, and he did. </p><p>“Well what,” she said with what must have been quite a sour face. “Also, do you have any spare kerchiefs or scarves?”</p><p>Just then, Shyle barged in. “I imagine it’s something out of this world, otherwise you would have come to the bathhouse for at least one evening this week!” </p><p>Mahri pushed her away. “That’s not what I was asking!” She passed Aoife a triangular piece of cotton cloth. It would have to do. Shyle made a face. Her hair was put up as well. </p><p>“What were you asking then?” </p><p>“Is he being <em> respectful</em>?”</p><p>Aoife opened her mouth to answer and closed it right away, and tilted her head. This was a slightly weird question and such a human word. Literally human, because Mahri said it in Aoife’s native tongue. Also, it sounded like a follow-up to something else, and Aoife did not know what.  </p><p>“Respectful?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Uhm. Sure. I guess. Yes.”</p><p>Mahri squinted. “Go-o-o-od.”</p><p>A suspicion started to shape. </p><p>“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”</p><p>“She absolutely did!” Shyle screamed from the other side of the room. </p><p>“A little,” Mahri admitted. “He’s alright.”</p><p>Aoife was keen on keeping others out of her private life, no matter how <em> human </em>this instinct was, and no matter how futile and useless. According to Florion and a conversation they had just this morning, there were already all sorts of rumours about them around town. She really didn’t want them, or Mahri’s bizarre patronage. But then, Aoife wondered why exactly she felt so concerned. It’s not like idle gossip could actively hurt her. It’s not like Mahri could do any harm. In fact, the latter did it all precisely because she cared, and not to interfere or do damage. </p><p><em> She cares about you very much, </em>Florion had told her. So he was probably recalling a conversation he’d had with Mahri a night or two before. </p><p>Besides, as far as blessings and praises related to men went in Mahri’s case, this was probably one of the highest.</p><p>“You know what,” Aoife managed. “He really is.”</p><p>Mahri nodded. To her credit, she did not ask about anything else. Yet again. “Come on. The kitchen today.” She offered her arm. </p><p>“Which one?”</p><p>“<em>The </em> kitchen.”</p><p>“Right then. Where’s Maeve?”</p><p>“Don’t know. Busy with something else, I think.”</p><p>Temple novices were usually called to help in the gigantic central communal kitchens only before major festivals and celebrations, to do busy work. </p><p>Two years ago Aoife arrived shortly after Boaldaen, so she did not see it or learn of its existence for quite a while. But last year she did witness the spring festival, in all its debauchery and cheerful chaos. She did not participate, of course. To keep on feeding and watering the merry crowd, they worked in short shifts, so every one of them could get an equal chance to enjoy the festivities. Aoife got assigned for the first one but, after accidentally receiving several involuntary lessons in anatomy, asked to stay for the second, and then the third, and then ran off, skipping the fireworks. Boaldaen was, as she now realised, as every Worship day but with its intensity stoked up past any reasonable limit. She did not feel comfortable in the slightest. Not only because she was surrounded by drunk strangers in different states of undress who didn’t deem it necessary to hide their lust towards each other, but, most of all, because she felt intensely out of place. Nobody offended or bothered her, but, also, nobody touched her, or showed interest in her beside a polite smile and a thank you thrown in her direction here and there. She was torn between wanting to truly be in the midst of this and the horrible shame brought on by the possibility of actually getting into said midst. A couple of months ago, remembering Boaldaen, she felt dread and excitement. </p><p>The former wasn’t in her head now. </p><p>Instead there were other things. A lopsided grin of Florion’s pillowy lips. Playful twinkle in his golden eyes. His broad shoulders tensing. How his already deep voice turned even deeper when he was aroused. The way he looked at her when she was singing. The scent of the skin on his neck. The strands of his hair flowing through her fingers. </p><p>She would not volunteer for more than one shift this year. </p><p>She’d only seen this gargantuan kitchen from the inside a couple of times before, but it never ceased to amaze her. The pantry was an ice cold dungeon maze one could easily get lost in. The hall on the ground floor was used only for cutting and other types of preparation, with more tabletops placed in the cooking area itself, which, in turn, had rows of stoves, burning, day and night, through what must have been half of the town’s supply of flamestone; stews and stock boiling slowly in bucket-sized pans on some, cuts of fish sizzling on cast iron pans on the others. There were grills and deep stone ovens as well, with hardwoods crackling inside. Endless rush that, nevertheless, looked organized somehow; steam and smells mixing, noises deafening; and wide open windows, some of them nearly wall high, did very little to alleviate the heat. The overseer working today stood watch over a whole army of cooks and scullions, quick and efficient as a bird of prey. She didn’t scream needlessly at them but instead gave short commands, sometimes using mysterious hand gestures as well as her voice. </p><p>Aoife and other girls from the Temple were sent to wash their hands and then assigned tasks within seconds. When they were done with them, they got another one. And then another.</p><p>Wash dishes used in the preparation, scrub pans, clean the flamestone ashes, bring goods from the pantry, gather and take out compost. They were entrusted with some cooking in the preparation area, as well, including mixing copious amounts of marinade with vinegar, salt and spices according to written instructions. Grind nuts and crumbs to make them into breading. Roll, cut and form bucketfuls of noodles. Soak dry peas, peel winter roots, and peel, and peel, and peel some more. </p><p>No one was complaining or slacking off, in fact, she’d heard a new joke or two from passing helpers while they were working. Aoife wondered for what must have been a thousandth time, how everyone was always so enthusiastic and efficient at their jobs. Didn’t the aldamaari ever feel lazy or discouraged? Ever?</p><p>After a short break and some food they were back at it. Barely any time to talk or even think of anything at length. </p><p>
  <em> I wonder what Florion is doing today.  </em>
</p><p>~*~</p><p>Portionas scratched his temple, while Florion was loading the flasks, tubes and retorts into the trolley. “How the fuck,” he mumbled, “are you done so fast.”</p><p>“I’ve got an additional motivation to keep me going,” Florion told him, flatly. </p><p>“Love?” Portionas probed. So he was in a festive mood already, huh. </p><p>“Nope.” </p><p>The other man chortled. “Well fine, if you don’t wanna talk about it...” </p><p>Florion straightened up and pulled the trolley away. It clanked like a dozen poorly made wind chimes smashing together. He’d have to be extremely careful on the way. “You’ll call on me if you need me, right?”</p><p>“Sure thing. But I don’t think I’ll have to. We’re not the kitchens, after all.”</p><p>Portionas took out a narrow piece of silk from his pocket. It was red. When tied on something visible, which should have traditionally been the wrist, but rarely ever was, it turned into a sign. That the wearer was looking for company during Boaldaen. </p><p>“Got yours?” </p><p>He did, technically: his red one lay forgotten in a wooden chest, somewhere in Iquinous. He’d used it once and the memory gave him mixed feelings to this day. He wondered if Ouhri remembered it all or had been too drunk to. </p><p>“Mine’s white.” <em> I’m taken, do not approach me.  </em></p><p>“That serious? Say, I’ve been wondering about hu—”</p><p>Florion cut him off, “Please, don’t.” </p><p>From the corner, Shay made a weird, undefined noise that might have been anything from laughter to a nervous hiccup. He had a red band as well, already proudly tied around his scrawny neck — a day too early. </p><p>“If you say so, loverboy.”</p><p>This was going to be a very unique Boaldaen. Florion looked forward to it. But then, he was looking forward just to seeing Aoife tonight. </p><p>~*~</p><p>In the middle of the afternoon Aoife collapsed over a bowl of half-peeled white asparagus. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, the noise, the overexertion, the rush, or all of these put together. She recovered pretty fast, though: in her state she thought she saw a human man with a very nasty smirk and bushy eyebrows bending down over her, and it alone scared her back into consciousness. There were no humans but herself around, of course, just local scullions fussing over her. “Poor baby.” “So small!” “So frail!” </p><p>“I’m neither of these things,” Aoife said, getting up and shaking off the hallucination. Luckily she missed the bowl and the bucket when falling, so both the asparagus and the peels were safe and sound. </p><p>Mahri rushed to her with a glass of water, but instead of giving it to her, upended it over her head. </p><p>“He-ey!”  </p><p>Fainting was not a very aldamaari thing to do. No wonder Mahri's gotten so nervous. Maybe she’s only read about this in books but never actually witnessed it. </p><p>“Oh, damn. Sorry! Are you okay? What can I do?”</p><p>
  <em> She cares about you very much.  </em>
</p><p>“Just… Give me a minute.”</p><p>One of the overseer’s helpers shouted from over the tabletop. “Give her some air! And get back to it, chop-chop. You, replace her. You, I just saw a horsefly over there, get it out of the kitchen, now. You, bring more asparagus up.” Then the man addressed her: “You. Go home.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Home. Now. We’ll manage.”</p><p>Shyle agreed with him, “She’s not even required to be here.”</p><p>“But I want to be here!” Aoife protested. The man was already feet away, however, and not listening. She really wasn’t looking forward to chilling out at her cottage now. Not when everyone else was busy being useful. </p><p>Mahri shook off droplets of water from her shoulder and offered helpfully, “Maybe go practice music? You said you had to.”</p><p>“Right. Thanks.” This was a slightly better idea than doing nothing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hopefully.”  </p><p>Mahri winked at her. The girls kissed her goodbye. </p><p>Right after getting outside, Aoife realised that yes, she did need substantial amounts of air. She was dizzy, and it took her a minute or two to feel steady enough to walk uphill. The nearest instrument she knew about was at the dreamer house. Reluctantly, she chose to go there instead of the Temple. </p><p>She did stop at the cottage to scoop up the sheet music and water the plants, including the Little Guy. Her thoughts were somewhere else when Florion was talking about the latter, and her heart was pounding way too hard. But the fact that he never actually told her what it was for, did not escape her. Judging by his reaction, she’d have guessed it was a medicinal herb, not poison or spice or provender, but this was about it.  </p><p>The dreamer house felt even bigger and emptier, and so very lonely without him. She sipped some more water in the kitchen, looking at the dining table from the corner of her eye and trying to ignore the fact that she was blushing. Her head was still spinning slightly, she didn’t feel like practicing at all. Instead she allowed herself to wander for a while, looking for oddities or books. The latter she did find on the second floor, in one of the bigger bedrooms. They were romances, mostly. In the other room, she found some manuals on crafts she didn’t know a thing about. There was a cookbook with illustrations, however, signed by someone called Endymion, and Aoife browsed it for a little while, until she realised she’s neither hungry nor interested in cooking for now, not after today. There were also two atlases at the bottom of the bureau. One seemed new but well-worn, with maps of the aldamaari cities and dwellings on every page. Iquinous appeared to be at least four times bigger than Rheske, if the map was to be believed. How did they move around it? Surely, simply walking from one end to the other would take hours. </p><p>The other seemed barely used, but, also, much older, leather bound and frail. It had maps of the lands and the seas and the islands. One of the latter, called Sarema, was allegedly the island with the greatest weather and best beaches, circled by warm currents. Families and newlyweds traditionally went there on vacations. Locals also cultivated edible seaweed that was tasty dried and salted. Sarema appeared to be very close to Rheske, barely off the shore, but with a map on this scale, she didn’t think it actually was. </p><p>She absentmindedly turned a page or two. Most of the names were unfamiliar to her, but here and there she would smile, seeing one she did know. “This is where they grow all the peppers,” she’d think. “Oh, and this is where the baker’s from.”</p><p>Until she turned another page and saw a name that made her freeze. </p><p>Jackson. </p><p>The town she’d been born in. The town she grew up in. Aoife stared at the signed dot and rubbed her eyes, and stared some more, and, with something painfully tightening in her chest, looked at the rest. It wasn’t a namesake, or a coincidence, or another hallucination. The map appeared outdated, with some settlements no longer existing, and a few new ones not mapped at all, but it was unmistakably of the human lands, on the continent on the other side of the ocean. </p><p>And, across all of it, in big, screaming, ornate letters, was an inscription. </p><p>
  <strong>HERE BE MONSTERS</strong>
</p><p>Aoife bit her lip. She turned the book to check the year in which it was printed, and, with an inexplicably heavy heart, saw that it was over fifty years ago. Before humans and aldamaari met for the first time. </p><p>This couldn’t have been right. First Contact happened later, after an exploratory caravel called Hybels sank in a storm, with only three people surviving the shipwreck, including John the Traveler. By some miracle they encountered an aldamaari ship days later, when they were still drifting in the open sea, on the verge of death. They were saved and brought to Beruza to recover, and John wrote down his impressions of the “green heathens and their green lands”. Aoife used to think those notes were strongly embellished. But she herself found out that they were instead quite insipid, as well as vile and insulting, compared to the truth. That short anonymous song alone was better than all of his notes combined. </p><p>Guided by John, the same “heathens'' then brought the three humans back home and, after replenishing the supply of freshwater and handing John a navigational chart they'd compiled together, immediately left. John the Traveler was later executed as a heretic. Or, as Aoife knew all too well now, publicly murdered for saying or doing an undesirable thing. His two companions, however, successfully fled back to the aldamaari, taking their families with them on a hijacked carrack and became one of the first human refugees on the continent. She’d heard say their children and grandchildren still lived somewhere near Beruza. </p><p>Knowing the story very well she shook her head disbelievingly. How did the aldamaari manage to map out all of this before the First Contact? How were they not seen or noticed at all? It was colossal work, requiring months, if not years, of travel and measurements, including going deep into dry land, with at least a partial crossing of a desert. Or, maybe, humans had dealings with the aldamaari before and hid them? This didn’t sound right. Surely someone would know and talk about it. </p><p>And, “here be monsters”? It’s not that she disagreed, but it seemed such an odd thing to write on a map. </p><p>She looked at the colophon again: much smaller letters and numbers below the date. This was a reprint of an atlas originally published seventy years ago. No, a hundred. No, a hundred and thirty. No, over two hundred. No—</p><p>“What the hell,” Aoife muttered.  </p><p>Going back to the map and staring at it for another whole minute, she finally turned the page. This time, it was the coastline, where John disembarked. She shut the book. </p><p>She did not want to think about it. In an ideal world, a world she longed to live in, this wouldn’t have bothered her at all, because that continent, that town, that coastline and the humans living along it did not matter and would not ever again be met by her gaze. </p><p>
  <em> Death before going back.  </em>
</p><p>Firmly and resolutely, she put the books back into the buro, sneezed out the dust, and went down to practice. </p><p>If the bulky tall-case clock in the corner of the dining hall was to be believed, she had over two hours to kill until Florion was done with work and she could go back to the square to meet him. This was the length of a standard music lesson on Worship day; and way fewer hours than she spent daily when studying the lyre under old master Nicholas’ supervision. Surely she could handle this on her own, now that no one whacked her for striking an incorrect chord. </p><p>She gave up after half an hour and slammed her face into the keys, the latter pushing out a confused mournful sound. </p><p>“This is impossible,” Aoife mumbled. And jumped in panic when two arms wrapped around her shoulders. Relaxing almost immediately once the scent of the arms’ owner hit her nostrils. </p><p>“No, it’s not.” </p><p>How did he manage to move so silently again? For all she knew, he could have been standing behind the doorway listening all this time. </p><p>Aoife turned her head. Florion kissed her, carefully tugging at her lower lip with his teeth. He didn’t smell of sweat and burning glass the way he usually did in the evenings. </p><p>“It’s not that I’m complaining,” Aoife whispered against his lips, “but you’re back early.” </p><p>“So are you,” he said, slowly kissing down her neck. </p><p>For a few seconds, she considered if telling him the reason was worth ruining the moment. No, she concluded, it wasn’t. Screw that reason. </p><p>But he added, “I’ve been here for two hours.” And Aoife moved back and away. “What?! Where?”</p><p>“Upstairs.” Surely not hiding in his bedroom? Going there and burying her face in his pillow was the very first thing she did. “I’m assembling a distiller in an empty room. Sorry. I didn’t know you were back.”</p><p>The implication was, they would have been doing something entirely different if he did know. If she did. A whole hour wasted! </p><p>“So did you find me by accident or...”</p><p>“I heard you. Faintly. A few minutes ago. This room’s almost right above, I think.” He nodded at the ceiling. </p><p>Aoife said, “Ugh.” And dropped her face into her palms. He moved the latter away. </p><p>“No ‘ughs’ are necessary. You were doing fine.”  </p><p>“It’s not the music. And even my fingers are getting better. It’s– How the hell do you all do it, Florion? How do you stay motivated, how do you never get discouraged or simply feel lazy? How come you never just– Give up. How?!”</p><p>She threw her feet over the bench and stomped them in frustration. </p><p>“Why, are you having trouble with motivation?”</p><p>“Yes!” she nearly shouted, curling her fingers into fists. “So, how?!”</p><p>“Well,” he started, dragging her away by the wrist towards one of the deeper armchairs, “you see, there’s a little fellow in each one of our heads.” He dropped on it and pulled her into his lap, facing away from him. “He tirelessly cheers for us day and night, and when we feel like being lazy, he pricks our brains with a needle.” His hands encircled her and started unbuttoning her robe. Slowly. </p><p>“Not funny,” Aoife whispered and leaned her head back onto his shoulder with a sigh. </p><p>Florion chuckled. “But it’s the truth!” Another tooth of a sea monster slid through a buttonhole. “Mine’s faulty, though. He sometimes sleeps on the job.” Florion’s palm snaked its way under the robe and tugged at her undershirt. </p><p>“The poor fellow,” Aoife said. “What’s the real answer, though?”</p><p>“The real answer is,” he responded without a smile this time, going back to the buttons, “we feel really bad — and I’d say this is what we call shame — if we let our peers down. Because we care for them and each other's well being. The feeling of wanting to do right by them is always, always there. It keeps us going.” </p><p>If so, the depths of their empathy were truly unfathomable to her. </p><p>“And this is just how you are?”</p><p>“This is just how we are. Some of us more though, and some less.”</p><p>
  <em> We’re less… Just less. </em>
</p><p>“And the latter are the dreamers?” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“And do you know why?”</p><p>“I honestly don’t,” he sighed, dragged his nails across the skin on her belly, and she shivered. </p><p>“Sometimes I wonder if you’re all a hive mind,” Aoife muttered after regaining her breathing, grinding her hips against his groin and causing a low, deep peal to rise from his chest. “Like bees.”  </p><p>“Maybe we are,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “Maybe I am naught but a lowly worker bee, and I’m just out for your nectar.”</p><p>She turned to kiss him, greedily, pushing her tongue into his mouth, writhing in his lap. His hands opened her robe, and bunched her shirt, and pulled it up, and just a moment later were kneading her breasts with a hungry, needy urgency. Aoife closed her eyes, allowing herself to melt into his caresses.</p><p>And then the vision of the human man with bushy eyebrows flashed before her eyes and she jerked up nervously, her lids shooting open. <em> Here be monsters.  </em></p><p>Florion noticed and moved his hands away immediately, tensing. “What’s wrong?” His voice was no longer playful and relaxed. </p><p>Aoife adjusted her clothes. “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” he insisted. “Tell me.”</p><p>“I–” What was there to tell? How she fainted in the kitchen and had a hallucination? This wasn’t the point, or a reason for her feeling <em> off</em>. Just a boring side effect. “Promise not to tell anyone.”</p><p>Only he was allowed to know. </p><p>Florion nodded. “I promise.” So far he’s been very good at keeping promises. </p><p>“I think– I think I’m scared. I think I’m scared all of the time. And I don’t notice it. Usually. But sometimes, I do.”</p><p><em>And it comes at random</em>, just like it did right now. Wasn’t her idiotic inner voice enough? Or was this its new weapon?</p><p>“What are you scared of, Aoife?” </p><p>“Humans,” she breathed out. Human <em> men</em>.</p><p>Florion cautiously offered, in a quiet voice, “Do you want to elaborate?”</p><p>“Maybe some other time.”</p><p>He pressed her close, so close, as if Florion wanted her to melt into him, and did not say a thing for a long while. </p><p>And when he did, it was this: “I’d hazard a guess. If I may. That the only reason you are having trouble with your motivation. Is that fear was your only one for decades. You’ll find another one. A much better one. It is inevitable.”</p><p>At times, she wanted so badly for someone to simply say everything was going to be alright. Just like he did right now. </p><p>“Florion, I–” </p><p>Aoife tossed her head up to look at him. He stared back, one eyebrow raised, expecting her to finish the sentence. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. Not yet. </p><p>“...I would love a bath. I think I still smell like the kitchens.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter-specific tags: Intercrural sex, PTSD, Fainting</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Ribbons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Eyebrows man makes his debut to do a meme.<br/>*What are these flashbacks doing here again? Preposterous. Who let fourteen year olds drink and have sex?! Inconceivable. Is there a reason all the humans mentioned seem to suffer from melanin deficiency? Maaaaybe. Why is this “perfect” society so messed up in places? Plot.<br/>*Green guy attempts to understand what his communicating-through-dreams god wants, but it’s very hard to do when you wake up with your dick in someone’s mouth. Truly tragic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “We have been taken on a walk to the furthest edges of their town and have discovered that of livestock, they have various kinds. One is horned, with eyes yellow like that of The Monster, and called “kapro” but they would only use them to collect milk and also, as I have found out to my horror, keep as company and go on strolls with. Another is called “shafoj” that is also horned but very wooly, with said wool cut and spun into thread. Third kind is called “lessej” (?) and has the biggest horns of all, and one may ride on their backs, but they produce neither milk nor wool.” </em>
</p><p>“I can’t believe how stupid I am.”</p><p>“You’re not. How were you supposed to know?”</p><p>Aoife threw up her hands. “I could have asked! But they were all wearing white ribbons while working. So I mimicked them.”</p><p>And it turns out, the girls just didn’t want to get distracted. She’d bet when each one of them left to change and join the festivities they replaced the ribbons, too. </p><p>“Which one did you wear during the last one?” Jealousy. Irrational. Bad. <em> Can’t help it. </em> </p><p>Florion sighed. “During the last one I slept, with my ears plugged and an additional pillow over my head.”</p><p>“What?! Why?”</p><p>“Because,” he said, opening the wardrobe and rummaging for something, “this is what happens when the bastards place an order for, let’s say, a whole glass gazebo with fifty by fifty mosaics on three sides, just a week before.” He paused and then asked in a somewhat quiet voice, “Would you have worn a red one last year?”</p><p>This was peculiar. The aldamaari didn’t <em> do </em>jealousy. What was this for then?  </p><p>She shook her head and answered truthfully, “I don’t think so. But the black one sounds nice.” <em> Come talk to me, I would like to find a new friend. </em>He offered her scissors and a roll of white ribbon. She cut some and pocketed it. </p><p>A mundane act, and yet her heart skipped a beat. </p><p>“For a people that talk about their feelings at length,” she said to steady herself, “you sure rely a lot on symbols.”</p><p>“It’s practical,” he responded, eyeing her distractedly from head to toe. </p><p>And so it was. </p><p>The bath she just took was, miraculously, also very practical and on point, without any distractions, because Florion went back to finish the distiller. </p><p>And now she stood in nothing but a bathrobe in his room, having hanged her clothes downstairs to air them before supper, and watched him roll the ribbon to put it back in. There were white and beige shirts inside the wardrobe, and she touched them absentmindedly. He stopped rolling. </p><p>“Put one on,” Florion said all of a sudden. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Nodding at the shirts, he repeated firmly, “Put. One. On.” </p><p>The bathrobe was perfectly fine for the time being. But she turned and saw the look he gave her and couldn’t resist, and reached for a white one. </p><p>It was fresh but still smelled a little like Florion did, because of all the lavender scattered underneath. The cotton was soft on her skin, and it felt comfortable, but she had to roll up the sleeves more than once. She heard his breath quickening and felt his eyes locked upon her. </p><p>Aoife turned to face him and started slowly buttoning the shirt from the neck down, but Florion took her by the wrists and pulled them away. “Leave it like this.” His gaze was <em> hungry</em> and she loved it to bits. </p><p>“Would you like to know,” he said, stepping closer to her, “what precisely would have happened if you were alone during the festivities, and tied on a red ribbon?” </p><p>
  <em> Please touch me.  </em>
</p><p>He did, taking another step, reaching, sliding the hems open and circling her nipples with his thumbs. </p><p>“Yes. Tell me,” she breathed out, closing her eyes involuntarily. </p><p>Pushing her back towards the bed with every following step he took, Florion told her, “Mhm. Let’s say you’ve had a drink or two, just enough to feel pleasantly lightheaded.”</p><p>Aoife noticed that the ball of ribbon was back in his hand. Stumbling, she fell back onto the mattress. But he leaned to push her legs on it completely and bent them at the knees.   </p><p>“Someone approaches you and bows, and asks if you would like to dance with them. But they’re not your type.”</p><p>Taking her by both wrists, he pulled up, almost painfully, until she was on her knees in the corner of the bed, right next to one of the columns supporting the tester. He raised the roll of ribbon, pulled some from the side and wrapped it around her wrists once. </p><p>“Florion...”</p><p>“The word.”</p><p>“No.” She shook her head violently. “No, no, no!” </p><p>“Right then. Someone who is not your type. There’s, quite simply, a thing or two about them that you don’t like.” </p><p>He dropped the rolled side of the skein casually and it fell before her with a thump. </p><p>“Are they too merry? Or too handsy? Or way too inebriated already? Is their smile too salacious? Or maybe...” Florion continued wrapping and binding the white ribbon - once above the carved wooden leaves, protruding from the column, level with her forehead, once around her wrists; circle and repeat. “Maybe it’s not salacious enough?” </p><p>It wasn’t too tight to stop blood circulation or hurt her. But tight enough for her hands to not be able to easily slip out. All she could do, at best, was twist them to hold on to the section of the ribbon between them and the column. She did just that. </p><p>“So you thank them,” he went on, tying a complicated knot. “And you shake your head, and you wish them a merry Boaldaen. They leave. No big loss.” </p><p>Florion stepped away to look at her. She couldn’t look back at him. Once again, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. So much natural light in the room still. <em> Must not faint again. </em> </p><p>“Ah. What a disappointment, you think. Maybe I should get another drink. Or maybe I should roam for company myself.”</p><p><em> Please touch me, please. </em> He was holding back, arm stretching out but never reaching her. “Please...” He seemed to ignore her, simply continuing with the <em> story.  </em></p><p>“But then, all of a sudden. Another someone. Is it a man? Let’s say it’s a man.” His hand finally reached her and brushed her over the shirt, with slow deliberation, from her shoulders to the small of her back. Aoife heard herself whine. “Let’s say he’s got a crooked grin on his face, and his long hair is tied in a braid. With a red ribbon, naturally.” </p><p>Bunching the fabric, he pulled it up to expose her backside, to brush it lightly with his fingers in lazy, slow circles. She bit into her shoulder to not be too loud. The shirt even tasted a little like Florion. </p><p>“No,” he said and gently pushed her head back to the center. “Where were we? Ah, right. That man. Maybe he’s just a stranger? Maybe he is someone that you’ve been throwing glances at for a while?” He bent to whisper in her ear, “Well, he knows he did. He’s hungry for you.”</p><p>Shame forced her to bite her lip, but this wasn’t enough to contain the moan. </p><p>Giving her ass one firm squeeze, Florion stepped away once more and started to undress. </p><p>“Maybe,” she whispered, “I’m hungry for him, too.” <em> Hungry </em>didn’t even begin to describe the feeling. It started at her belly and in her mouth, spreading fast across all of her body in a scalding wave of heat. </p><p>“That so? What a lucky fellow,” Florion said with a lopsided smile, throwing his shirt over the desk and reaching down to unlace his breeches. “Either way, he asks you to dance, and you respond... How do you respond, Aoife?”</p><p>“Yes!” she nearly screamed, struggling in her bonds to get closer to him. </p><p>“He takes you by the hand to pull you in and hug you. Do you like the way he smells?”</p><p>He was completely naked now, and <em> so hard, </em>and she was staring, and her mouth was watering so much she had to swallow once, twice. “Does he, maybe, smell of molten glass? Or is it lavender?”</p><p>Leaving her no more time to look, he climbed on the bed behind her. “Please...” <em> Touch me, please, please, please. </em>And yes, she liked the way he smelled, always, it was her favourite scent in the world. </p><p>His hands were free to roam her body now, and so they did, reaching for her breasts first. Pinching the nipples cautiously, then rolling them between his fingers with more pressure. It was still so astonishing to her how <em> this </em>could so strongly echo between her legs. </p><p>“He leads you away. Not to the dance floor though, not at all. Away from the music and the noise. You can stop him, of course, and drag him back. But you didn’t really wear that ribbon to please the tireless musicians, did you? So you’re quite fine with it.”</p><p>Pressing his chest against her back, he nuzzled her hair, breathing her in, with his hands cupping, rubbing, sliding down, and down, but never quite <em> reaching</em>. </p><p>“Where does he take you? Is it his home? No, he’s way too eager. You do not know it, but he’s been watching you for a while. Until he couldn’t take it any longer, until he got too scared that someone else would get to you first, and he’d miss his chance.”</p><p>His fingers moved to her inner thighs. Another side of not quite there. She whined again. She wanted him so badly, it hurt. Turning her head as far back as she could, she whispered, helplessly, “Please.”</p><p>Florion reached as if to kiss her but only flicked his tongue over her lower lip. Aoife nearly shrilled. </p><p>“He’s smitten by you and drunk, too, not just on wine. On your scent, your touch, the look you gave him when he pulled you into his embrace, as well. Your hair ignites him.” He pushed the locks away from her flushed face. “Your eyes are the promise of a lush summer. Your gentle blush makes him wonder which color your cheeks and neck would turn when he undressed you.”</p><p>She’d have bet it would be the one they were now. It felt like she was burning. </p><p>“He also heard you sing a while ago, you see,” Florion continued, ruthlessly, and kept on slowly touching her, with the tips of his fingers. She struggled, not because she wanted to be unbound, but because the whole of her felt restless, needy, starving for him. “So now he cannot rid himself of other thoughts. How would you sing when his tongue gets a taste of you? Would he be able to disrupt the song and turn it into screams of pleasure when his hips are slamming into you?”</p><p>Another moan escaped her lips, and she didn’t bite back on it this time. </p><p>“Mmm yes, one of these… No, not home. He cannot wait that long.” <em> A liar and a tease. </em> She smiled involuntarily, but the smile turned into another helpless whine when his palms circled back to her breasts. “Let’s say there’s a big secluded tree nearby. A sycamore. Its trunk is smooth and wide, the air is sweet and smells of freshly cut grass when the man presses you against it and bends down to kiss your lips.” </p><p>He lifted her head by the chin and kissed her. Aoife nearly screamed into his mouth, and then nearly screamed again when he pulled away so soon, <em> too soon</em>. </p><p>“You kiss him back, you let his hands cling to you. Do you like the way I dance so far, he asks.” </p><p>She nodded, not quite able to form words. </p><p>“And so you do. Then his hands sneak under your clothes.” Retreating once again, he pulled the shirt up to squeeze her ass with both palms, forcefully, and then released, and repeated, again, and again. Surely he could see how wet she was. But he was taking his time once more. Aoife wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. One part of her wanted him to do this forever, another, to beg for him to take her, to not stop or slow down until he made her come. </p><p>“There’s chill in the air, summer is still too far away, after all, but you don’t give a damn. Is this a boring temple robe you’re wearing, that he’s struggling to rid you of? His smile is so lustful, he’s thinking of things he wants to do to you if you allow him. He wants you so very much. Do you want him, as well?” Finally, finally, his fingers slid down to brush her folds. She arched her back as much as she could to lean into it, again, nearly shrieking out of want. “Oh, you do. You’re already so wet. His mouth is watering, because he wants to taste you. What is the poor fellow to do with that?”  </p><p>Recently, she’s discovered a few new things that all got included into the “stuff I like” list. And his tongue between her legs… Well, this one jumped to the top pretty much instantly. </p><p>She vaguely registered the fact that her shoulders were so rigid they started to numb. An attempt to relax them was too feeble to succeed. Florion was being deliberately careful not to make her come, tasting her slowly, inconsistently, without a rhythm, but she, in turn, stubbornly tensed, famished for release. </p><p>No luck: once more, he stopped, straightened up and kissed her, deeply, slowly. She felt his cock, hot, hard, press to her entrance right after, but all attempts to pierce herself with it failed as well. Florion pulled slightly back and whispered into her ear again, “So now he’s gotten you all wet… Why is he lingering? He wants to ram into you, he wants to hear you scream. Maybe he desperately wants you to ask for it? So, would you? Would you do him this little favour and ask?" </p><p>“Please...”</p><p>“Hm, please what,” he said with that playful ruthlessness again, while dragging a nail down from her collarbone to her belly. </p><p>She swallowed and murmured <em> the thing </em>so quietly that she barely even heard herself spell it out. </p><p>“Didn’t catch that.”  </p><p>Aoife shut her eyes. “Please, f-fuck me. Please, Florion, please, just fuck me already. Pl—”</p><p>He grabbed her sides and pushed in before she was done screaming out another please, and it turned into an uninterrupted, wild, long wail, because <em> oh. </em> Oh, sweet mother of mercy and dear heavens above. Oh, by all the demons and monsters and non-existent gods, it felt <em> so good</em>. No painful edge, no burn, only this: the indescribable pleasure of being stretched and filled by him. <em> Him, it’s him. </em> </p><p>“The feel of you is driving him mad. You feel so good. S-so good. He wants to... aaaah… to keep on doing this to you forever.” </p><p>The sounds they made together, where their bodies connected, were <em> obscene</em>. Her breath was rushing out in short staccato bursts, generously sprinkled with shrill, uncontrollable cries, as Florion fucked her in fast, deep strokes, barely holding back, barely keeping himself in check anymore. </p><p>“He has you,” Florion growled, bunching her hair in his palm and pulling her head back by it. Aoife choked on another scream. <em> Yes. Oh, yes. </em> “He has you, and you are his tonight.”</p><p>“I am,” she breathed out. Defenseless, his, <em> deep</em>. “Tonight, always, his.” There wasn’t even a need to touch herself to rush it, she was already so close, deliriously, maddeningly close. </p><p>But he stopped, and withdrew, and she screamed for him. <em> No, please, not again.  </em></p><p>“Hold on,” he told her in quite a different tone and pulled the knot open, unbinding her wrists. She hasn’t noticed the deep marks encircling them in several places, and didn't even feel precisely how much she dug her own fingernails into the flesh of her palms. </p><p>Florion spent a few long seconds rubbing her hands, while she kept her eyes shut, trying to hold on to the feeling he’d just deprived her of, and <em> craving </em> it again as much as she never craved anything in her entire life.</p><p>“Come here,” he pulled her by the waist, falling back, dragging her along, until she was on top of him and bent down to kiss him like she did last night, while they were fooling around and playing marbles in the hallway. It didn’t feel the same though. Despite the fact that he was underneath, he still had all the control and, when his fingers squeezed her hips, lifting them one second and all but dropping them the next, impaling her on his cock, she gave away the last vestiges of power to him. “Is he good enough? Do you like what he’s doing to you?”</p><p>“Yes! O please, please, please...” She couldn’t stay up; she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. The only thing she could do was to fall, no, drop down on his chest, and bite into it as he pressed his arms painfully hard around her, bent his knees and <em> slammed up </em>into her again, and again, and again, and again, with ever rising savagery to it, until Aoife was screaming at the top of her lungs, with tears streaming down into her open mouth; and coming hard, so hard that her vision blurred, and any feeling in her limbs was lost to her, and she was nothing but a ball of fire plummeting to the ground, for what felt like minutes upon minutes of freefall, with his voice in her ear. “Oh, he’s about to come inside you. He fills you up, he fills you up to the brim, like a goddamn custard bun on Worship day, Aoife. And you take it. Take it. Take it. Take every. Last. Drop.”    </p><p>
  <em> Never could have imagined.  </em>
</p><p>It took her some time to come to, laying on her side and realizing that, in fact, she wouldn’t be able to walk. Or move at all. Her whole body felt like it was made of cotton. </p><p>“Hey, you,” Florion whispered, stroking her hair. </p><p>“Such… A good… Storyteller....”</p><p>“Why thank you. Want another story?”</p><p>Was he joking or was he <em> insane</em>?! A part of her hoped for the latter. She was still aroused, still wanting more, but her muscles objected. </p><p>“I’m just. Ugh. Five minutes,” Aoife mumbled. </p><p>He chuckled in lieu of a response. It sounded like something reaching her from beyond a veil. The kiss that he planted on her temple felt otherworldly and the blanket that Florion pulled over her, like a thin layer of clouds. </p><p>When she woke up it was dark outside. Realising that Florion stood by the open door, and there was a faint light in the hallway behind him, Aoife forced herself to move half an inch and make a string of noises. She felt sticky. <em> Still wearing his shirt, as well. Not a dream.  </em></p><p>“Hey,” he said, a smile clearly audible in his voice. “I brought food.”</p><p>“What time is it?” Her mouth was dry and she thought of reaching for the ever-present glass of water, but this would have required substantial movement, so Aoife simply gazed at it in helpless rage. </p><p>“Around nine.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>She felt panic for a moment, but then remembered neither of them needed to get up early tomorrow. Sleep disruptions did not matter.  </p><p>Florion came in and, just after reaching for water to offer to her, sat on the edge of the bed. She’d fallen asleep on his side of it. <em> His side </em>implied that there was her side now, too, but who was she kidding. Of course there was. </p><p>Once again, the situation implied that she should feel awkward. She didn’t feel nearly as awkward as she’d imagined. But, instead, very languid. Slightly disoriented. And hungry. Less than a week ago Aoife didn’t quite understand how people talked after doing these things to each other. Turns out, they just... did. </p><p>Aoife drank some water, gave the glass to him, and collapsed back with a thud. </p><p>“Are you alright?” He didn’t seem that worried, although the question implied that he was. </p><p>She said, “Yes. Why?” At this, the corner of his lips tugged slightly upward. “And why are you smiling?”</p><p>“No reason,” Florion replied, grinning in earnest now, one eyebrow twitching momentarily, while his fingers absentmindedly plucked at her hair. </p><p>Yes, so he did f...<em> just say the accursed word... </em>fuck her to sleep, so what. It is unbecoming of a man like him to act so smug! But his smile was so infectious she couldn’t help but return it, though weakly. </p><p>Just then, Aoife’s empty stomach rumbled. Another one of creature comforts that she’d become accustomed to way too fast, was eating thrice a day, nearly always on time. Before she came here, this was considered a luxury unheard of. Before she came here, she often went hungry for days and never even dared to complain. </p><p>He heard. This, too, wasn’t as embarrassing as she’d imagine it might be.  </p><p>“I could bring the food here. M?”</p><p>The proposal seemed tempting, but questionable, as this would invite all sorts of insects into the room. </p><p>“No, I think I can do this. Give me a minute.” </p><p>He stood up. “What do you say we eat on the roof then?”</p><p>Roof. Stairs. Up. Would require effort. But this offer seemed even nicer than eating in bed.  </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“Look… I hope I didn’t overstep any bounds but. I dropped by your place. And brought a change of clothes for you.” He nodded at the nearby chair. “And checked the plants. One of the tomatoes needed replanting, so I sort of just...” He shrugged. “Sorry.”</p><p>Although Aoife mentally thanked herself for sticking to the habit of always keeping her abode clean and orderly, this revelation didn’t bother her too much. In fact, she was glad. It meant that she wouldn’t have to go there and back again tonight. </p><p>The feeling was suspicious and unexpected. For nearly two years, that small cottage was just hers, with no one else visiting it for longer than half an hour, so she’d come to see it as her personal corner. But now she didn’t mind that he’s been in it, and probably rummaged through her things extensively. </p><p>“It’s fine. Thank you. Did you find my secret weapons and spy notes?”</p><p>“Of course I did, who do you take me for,” Florion replied, smiling again, and bent down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be upstairs, okay?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>But he wasn’t. A while later, after hastily visiting the children’s bathroom and putting on fresh clothes — turns out, Florion simply plucked dry ones from the clothesline — she found him waiting at the bottom of the steep staircase, arms crossed, and that damnable lopsided grin on his face again. </p><p>“Just thought you might need some help,” he explained. She felt like whacking him with something. She felt like laughing. </p><p>“I most certainly do not!” Aoife said with what was supposed to be indignation but got disrupted by laughter that did come out, after all. </p><p>Climbing the stairs leading up to the roof was one miserable adventure. It took her a while. </p><p>“And don’t act so smug!” she proclaimed, looking up at him. </p><p>Florion chuckled. “What? I didn’t say anything!”</p><p>‘I can see you smirking. You did this to me and you’re <b>proud</b>!”</p><p>“Yes, well, allow me just this one minute of smugness, treasure. Please. Just the one? This is a new achievement for me, you see.”</p><p>“What a bastard,” she muttered, smiling ear to ear. </p><p>His smile, however, faded. Florion froze at the top of the stairs. </p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>“My apologies. Just had another one of those moments.”</p><p>She didn’t need an additional explanation. What humans called deja-vu. In his case, very justified. He did, he definitely <em> did </em>have those memories buried in there somewhere. But did it even matter anymore? </p><p>Aoife sighed. “Yes. I did call you a bastard before. And I meant it as little as I do now,” she said, grabbing onto his sleeve and finally,<em> finally </em> emerging on the roof a few seconds later. </p><p>He got the old coals burning in the gazebo brazier beforehand, and she heated up a skewer over them, while Florion was uncovering the bowls he’d brought from downstairs and spooning the food. </p><p>Faint noises reached them from the square. They felt louder than usual. </p><p>“Florion,” she poked his shoulder.</p><p>“M-yes?”</p><p>“What exactly do you celebrate? When you celebrate Boaldaen, I mean.”</p><p>Thinking about it now, she couldn’t believe how many things she’d either taken for granted, or was simply too shy to ask about, or had never gotten straight answers regarding. </p><p>He passed a plate to her. “Sex.”</p><p>Aoife rolled her eyes. “Come on!”</p><p>“Okay, not exactly.” He popped a pickled olive into his mouth and uncorked a bottle of wine. “But it is a holiday celebrating everything carnal. That’s how it started. Allegedly. It’s changed over the years.”</p><p>“And now?”</p><p>“I think that now,” he said, “it’s more about making new connections and letting go of old unnecessary things. And cherishing the ones you have, of course. At least, that’s what it is for people wearing black or white.” </p><p>There were noodles on her plate, painted deep red by the sauce. Some spring greens with walnuts sprinkled on top. And a few thick stalks of boiled white asparagus. Aoife stabbed one with a fork as if it was her nemesis. It tasted bland despite all of the oil poured over it, but the aldamaari ate it more as a symbol than anything else. It was the very first spring vegetable that didn’t need a glass house to fully grow, and its season was short, and coincided with the spring festival. Just like the snowdrops were the short-lived first flowers and, thus, valued and adored, although they were nothing but weeds. </p><p>“You don’t mind, do you? Me asking questions about… All of this.”</p><p>Florion swallowed his food hastily. “Of course I don’t!” he responded. “I’m just surprised you didn’t know these things before.”</p><p>He offered her the skewer, and she pulled a piece of fish off it with her fork, leaving the rest for him. With their lust sated somewhat and temporarily not being part of the equation, this felt like supper shared between two friends. </p><p>
  <em> Never imagined it possible.  </em>
</p><p>“So I guess you could say,” Aoife mused, “that you celebrate each other.”</p><p>“You know what? Yes!”</p><p>“This is actually a really good reason to celebrate something.”</p><p>“Why, what do humans celebrate?” he asked, pushing a glass of wine towards her. He downed his with apparent thirst and refilled it. </p><p>What <em> did </em>they celebrate, if anything at all? </p><p>“Their god. And some dead people. They call them saints. So they’ve established a few. Dates.”</p><p>“I assume there’s not a lot going on during those,” Florion said, mixing the rest of his noodles together with the salad. “Judging by your tone.”</p><p>“At the Convent, they don’t really drink and feast and play games… Well, none of that. They...”</p><p>The one in the middle of winter. That was the one she always dreaded most. You were supposed to kneel for hours on the cold stone floor and recite orisons. If you lost consciousness or fell asleep, the Mother Superior would stick half-frozen pieces of coal under your clothes, in addition to the usual. One time, Aoife fell ill the next day and it turned into a long bout of what the aldamaari later explained to her was “pneumonia”, and she was lucky to have survived because no one came to care for her or to give her any medicine, or even empty the chamberpot. Ready to die. Never begged for help. Begging would mean giving up. Showing them they’ve won. That altar boy she’d kissed… He did bring her some water and broth in secret. But he was so scared. To be found out and whipped. To get sick as well. Not because diseases spread by contact, which she knew now, but because... If you were sick after the All Night Prayer, it meant that god didn’t favor you. The boy feared that if he helped her, god would stop favoring him this year. But he still helped… Saved her life, maybe. And she no longer even remembered his name. Was it Thomas? She thought it was Thomas. Her lungs felt ravaged for months after… How many years ago…  </p><p>“Aoife...” </p><p><b> <em>Eve</em>.</b> <em> What a filthy brat, you are, Eve. Do you need another one for good measure? Well, do you?    </em></p><p>“Aoife!”</p><p>She shook it all off and brought the world back into focus. Florion sat next to her with his brow furrowed. There was not a trace of cheerfulness left on his face. “Where did you go just now?”</p><p>To the Convent, she wanted to say. To the humans. To the life before this one. </p><p>Why did her mother want her to end up there? Why? </p><p><em> Because otherwise you would have ended up a whore like her. It’s either a whore or a nun for the likes of you, </em> <b> <em>Eve</em></b><em>. </em> </p><p>Her mouth felt dry again. </p><p>Aoife realised that her nasty inner voice hadn’t bothered her for a second all day up until now. It was returning in force. </p><p>“I just… I remembered something, from very long ago, and...”</p><p>Florion was looking at her expectantly, and when she did not finish the sentence or give any other definitive reply, took the plate from her rigid hands, put it on the table, and pulled her into an embrace. </p><p>She felt so torn about the latter. As if there were two parts of her yet again, tugging. One wanted to hide and shelter herself in his arms, and to be consoled by him, it craved Florion’s care and worry and touch and attention; the other rejected it all as needless, shallow pity, and raged, incessantly, tirelessly. </p><p>Why did this have to come back now? And for the second time today, of all days? This was such a good day, such a good week, she’s been so happy. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Aoife muttered. </p><p>“Don’t say this, please. You have nothing to be sorry for.”</p><p>Shame, fear, distrust, looking over her shoulder all the time. How long till she managed to get rid of those? How long does one need, anyway? </p><p>“Humans aren’t,” Aoife started, distractedly, “known for their feasts. Or dancing. Or free love.”</p><p>“I’m well aware of that. Tyranny and revelry don’t mix well.”</p><p>She pulled away. </p><p>“So what <em> do </em> they do?”</p><p>Aoife half-formed a shrug. “They remind you that god is always watching.”</p><p>Florion grimaced as if in pain. </p><p>They sat in silence for a while, until he said, quietly, “I’m not asking you to tell me, if you don't want to tell me. I would simply like to know why you are so hesitant to do it. Are you scared that I might not believe you? Or would ridicule you? This will not happen. I swear it.” </p><p>Cruel things were threatening to spill out of her. “You don’t know me” and “how can I be sure you won’t tell anyone”, but they did not and neither did tears. He was aldamaari. They told each other their tiniest grievances. They shared, they complained, they discussed everything, because keeping things bottled up was considered almost as bad and unhealthy as staying alone for too long. And yes, they pushed. Yet he didn’t even try to push her.   </p><p>Although it must have been, at the very least, unusual for him, the way she held onto all the <em> painful bits</em>. Why, then? Is it because she did not want to relive them? Knowing full well that sometimes, talking about unpleasant things out loud helped distance yourself from them? Aoife's learned that when, stumbling through words of her as of yet poor vocabulary, explained the nature of her scars to the women at the Temple bathhouse over a year ago. </p><p>She felt the two of them were alike. He also made attempts to hold back, in the dream, instead of spilling all his pain upon her in an instant. Maybe he would have never said anything at all if she didn’t push <em> him</em>. </p><p>“Because if I do. You will fuss over me, and always think that I’m frail and weak.” </p><p>He made a sound that resembled both a groan and a low whimper. “I would never, ever think such a thing, Aoife.”</p><p>“Are you quite sure about that?” </p><p><em> He doesn’t know you. </em> Mahri, an adolescent, thought her dangerously vulnerable and in need of protection. Maeve, a coeval, thought her weak and in need of scolding and <em> guidance </em> before thinking at length about her own personal hangups. Countless aldamaari men and women who fussed over her nearly every single day, as if she were… </p><p>Helpless without them. But did he think the same thing?</p><p>Florion brushed her hair away from her face. She didn’t hate the gesture, she never did, although one could say it implied her helplessness. “Yes,” he said with a deep sigh. “I am quite sure about that. What do you say we give you some perspective?”</p><p>“Perspective?”</p><p>“Indeed. I promise this story is going to be very chaste.” He placed the fork back into her hand and nodded at the food, indicating that she should eat. She wanted to, but couldn’t bring herself to take another bite. “There once was a young girl who came to a far off land populated by big green men. Into a crooked town on the slopes of a mountain by the sea. She did not speak the language, nor did she know a single person there. No family, no friends. And, I hear, no faith and no purpose. Was she scared? Did she stay scared?”</p><p>“No,” Aoife said, truthfully. “She did not.”</p><p>“Odd, because other humans that came there were. And did. Other humans kept to themselves, barely talking to the locals and staying in their own close knit communities for decades.”</p><p>“It’s not like she had a choice.”</p><p>Florion took the fork from her, speared some greens and a walnut with it, brought it to her mouth. They tasted sweet and sour and tangy, as pomegranate sauce spread over her tongue. “Oh but she did,” he continued. “She could have cocooned like a silkworm. She could have locked herself up to shed tears until there’d be none left. If she were weak. She could have shunned hard labor. If she were frail. Instead, she learned the language. No easy feat. Not being obligated to, she, nevertheless, worked as hard as anyone else, until her fingers bled and hardened in new ways. She never, ever complained or slacked off. Not once. I even heard tell that when some clueless maidens dragged her out into the sun before Midsummer, and when she’d gotten seared from head to toe, she didn’t ask for help, initially, and tried getting back to work two days after, being barely able to stand. Or how once she got injured at work, and...”</p><p>“How did you...”</p><p>“People talk, Aoife.” He spun the fork to pick some noodles and feed them to her. “I wonder. I wonder what was going through her head all this time? Did she do it all simply because she was stubborn? And miserable?”</p><p>“She was happy.”</p><p>“Quite. Happy to work. Happy to contribute. Eager to blend in. She wanted them to know that she wasn’t a guest anymore. But a local. An equal. The only other thing worth mentioning, however, is this: compared to those big green men she was short. Small. As adorable as a cub. And they couldn’t help it.” Florion fed her some fish. She chewed and swallowed it and then took the fork back from him. “It’s an instinct. Like a parent’s instinct. They showered her with care and bustle, and were all but squealing upon seeing her. Because this is just what you do to small fluffy things that make cute noises and appear weak and frail. I do not think she needed or wanted this. Respect? Yes. Acceptance? Yes. An army of guardians thinking her helpless? No. Pity? Gods, no. But she’d come to expect this manner of care from each and every one of them. It too morphed into an instinct of sorts.” He took a swig of wine and sighed deeply, contemplating for a few moments. “The way others see us does not, cannot change what we really are. Weak people may accept the way others see them, sometimes, sure. But she struggled again and again, tirelessly, to prove to the green idiots that she wasn’t who they thought she was. It failed, again and again. Do you think there’s some truth to this?”</p><p>“Yes,” Aoife said almost without thinking. Put into simple words like this, it really seemed quite logical. When she lived with her mother she was a child, but could already see how cruel the world was, and how unfair. She had no control over anything but struggled to get some, resisting her fate, daring to cling on to hope even when times were dark. At the Convent they tried to convince her she was some worthless, unclean spawn of a filthy whore and Kenn Death Bringer, and to wrestle any semblance of control from her hands, and she resisted thrice as hard. They were evil. Once you stop believing in their god, there’s clear right and wrong, and they were in the wrong. When she came here Aoife justifiably thought that no one would think these things of her anymore, because the aldamaari didn’t hold the same beliefs and weren’t cruel or superstitious. They were not evil. They were well-wishers, all of them. But they did fuss over her all the time and, no matter how much she resisted yet again, she couldn’t control it. Darling, child, honey, dear. <em> The poor baby. </em>Every single day. They pitied her. They did, after all, act like she was weak. </p><p>But she never truly was. </p><p>Although in the beginning she did appreciate their patronage, it never stopped when it should have. </p><p>A battle for control in every aspect of her life, with warfare slowly becoming all-encompassing, meticulous and, frankly, a bit absurd.</p><p>This is why she felt so irritated when Mahri asked her innocent questions. Why harmless rumours made her so concerned just this morning. Part of it. All part of it. Right? </p><p>It still did not alleviate her doubts completely. Did he not feel and act protective of her, just as the others did? Aoife asked him. </p><p>“It’s true that I want to protect you. To care for you. But this doesn’t make you weak. Maybe this just makes me a panicky idiot. Helplessly choking on that fucking instinct. And there’s that.”</p><p>“Florion...” words escaped her. </p><p>He drank some more wine and attempted to give her a reassuring smile. But he appeared anxious. As if he too said something that he’s been reluctant to say. “So does this put things into perspective for you?”</p><p>She pondered on it some more. “It does.”</p><p>“I think it does for me, as well. I am not offering you pity, Aoife. You need none. But maybe you could lean on me from time to time.”</p><p>“Maybe I could.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>She bunched the hem of her robe and squeezed it. He deserved more than just this. He deserved to be reassured that she did, in fact, want and need <em> his </em> support. <em> Carry me up the slope when my legs won’t hold and my heart is fettered by dread. </em>Maybe someday soon she’d be ready to tell him. “Florion… May we just forget about it for a while?” Aoife pleaded. </p><p>She understood why he wanted to know. But Aoife wasn’t ready to talk about it, either. Close, but not there yet. Her past was poison, overflowing, and she feared it spreading. Over him, over their relationship. </p><p>“Of course. I am sorry if I made you feel bad.”</p><p>“You never do.”</p><p>Even if his words did stir something in her, it was uncomfortable but useful, and never <em> bad. </em>And if there was anyone left that she’d willingly give up some control for, it was him. In fact, she already did. Repeatedly. It was a bedroom game of sorts, but… It was the first time in her life when she didn’t mind it spilling beyond. </p><p>The Temple bell rang faintly. “Look over there,” Florion said, pointing northward, in the direction of the lighthouse. </p><p>“What am I loo— Oh.”</p><p>Just as the bell faded there was a remote <em> bang, </em>and a thin red line crossed the night sky over the shore with a whistling noise, and exploded into a flower.  </p><p>Aoife jumped up to see more but there were no others.  </p><p>“Just a test for tomorrow.”  </p><p>“I missed them last year! They are so beautiful.”</p><p>He stood up too, to put an arm around her. “Tomorrow at noon, are you coming to the beach with me?”</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“The lighting of bonfires.”</p><p>“I don’t know what that is!”</p><p>“Hold on, did you miss this one, too? Then you simply have to come!” </p><p>I will go anywhere as long as it’s with you, she thought. </p><p>Aoife smiled. “If we wake up that early.”</p><p>They ate their supper and she pushed the <em> painful bits </em>stubbornly away. They washed and dried the dishes together and then went back to the roof to finish the wine. He carried her most of the way up the stairs, and she didn’t mind. Florion told her of all the other spectacular, beautiful, and dumb holiday traditions that she did not participate in while working, or hiding, or feeling irrationally unwelcome. Most of these did not exist in Rheske anyway, from outrageously ugly hats and masks to pelting each other with overripe fruit. Sky lanterns did, and she already knew they were his favourite.  </p><p>~*~</p><p>Florion’s missing memories had poison in them, overflowing, and he feared it spreading. Choosing his words to say why exactly he was feeling so protective of her felt, for a moment, like he was about to start the crossing of a treacherous marschland. He went around it. He hated it. He hated half-truths and holding things back from her. </p><p>That’s what it was after all. A half-truth. Sure, most of his people saw her as one would an adorable baby otter. Some, as an oddity. But this was not the only reason. Maybe if they were tethered to her they’d see past the surface, past all her timidness and seeming naivete into her real self when they touched her. But they couldn’t. She’d stay a separate entity for them. </p><p>They both were so alike in a way. Because if he could truly be tethered to people, maybe they’d know that beneath his confrontational spiky facade he was torn and vulnerable, and weeping for things he did not remember.  </p><p>
  <em> Not alone anymore. Please make it last.  </em>
</p><p>When Florion made love to her again that night he was gentle, tender, drinking in her quiet moans slower than he did the wine, and nearly wept too. For things he was now scared to lose. </p><p>And then the dreams came. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Aoife jerked awake as he was screaming. This time his cries had a clear shape. “What do you want from me?” he kept repeating, and even in her drowsy state she knew Florion was not addressing her. “What, <strong>what</strong> do you want from me?!” As she reached out, he sat up and roared like a wild animal, and she recoiled, hands frozen in mid-air. </p><p>“Florion...” </p><p>Never before had she heard a grown man cry, yet here he was, body twisted, gnarled in the darkness, wracked by hissing sobs, shaking. Her hands finally reached their destination, encircling him, pulling him close, followed by the entirety of her, chest pressing into his back. </p><p>“Just a dream,” Aoife told him. “Just a bad dream.” </p><p>Hoping that it truly was. </p><p>“I don’t understand,” Florion muttered slowly following her back down, and this time she was only half-sure this was addressed to her. </p><p>“No one ever does. Shake it off.”</p><p>“Can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” </p><p>“Sh-h-h. You can. Of course you can.”</p><p>When he fell back asleep, tears drying on his high cheekbones, she lay awake for a little while, with a thought half-forming in her head about how he wasn’t as strong and tough as she assumed him to be. That maybe it was him who needed protection. This idea left her when she dozed off. </p><p>And the man with the bushy eyebrows was there waiting for her.</p><p>She tensed for a nightmare. But he was not scary in the slightest now that she’s taken a good look at him. Same height as her, scrawny but for the small belly, with no muscle on him, he looked somewhat pathetic. And his grin wasn’t nasty at all, it was, if she had to put it into words, awkward. The front of his clothes had a cat embroidered on it. She tried to take a better look, but it was blurry. </p><p>Aoife stared at the man, concluded that he was absolutely harmless and then looked around. They both stood opposite each other in a boundless void, with no ceiling, or floor, or walls, or a horizon. Nothing but empty, formless white. </p><p>Then the man announced, “You’re laughing. He turned his wang into a tapioca pudding dispenser, and you’re laughing.”</p><p>Aoife recoiled. Was he out of his mind? “What are you talking about?! I’m not laughing. And what’s tapioca? Or pudding? Or wang?”</p><p>“Yeah, no wonder I’m having so much trouble reaching you,” the man said, shaking his head. He had a bald spot, she noticed. This was such a human thing that she’d forgotten about it even existing.  </p><p>“Reaching me for what? Reaching me how? What is going on? Who are you?”</p><p>“Call me uncle Mihkel. But don’t call me to dinner if you’re serving verikäkk.”</p><p>
  <em> Very-what? </em>
</p><p>How could she even think him frightening before? This man was nothing but an unpleasant nuisance. An annoying buzzing insect. “Is that it? Is that all you’ve got to say?”</p><p>“I mean, I could say more, but what’s the point. Just. Remember this one for me. Okay? Okay. Two parts silverhaze mixed with one part gwaren. Think you could remember this one for me? Fucking please, already!!!”</p><p>“What? Is that it? Remember for what purpose, exactly? What do you want from me?”</p><p>The man groaned. “We’re in a bit of a pickle, Maria! Things are heating up in the genocide fandom! So just. Tell your frozen yogurt tap — oh man, I’ll never get over this thing, what the actual, genuine fuck! — that that’s what he needs to take. Pl-l-le-as-s-s-e-e!”</p><p><em> He didn’t even call me by my real name, or ask for it at all. What a bother. I can barely understand him. And why, pray tell, would anyone ever freeze yogurt?! </em>Aoife thought and then woke up. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter specific tags/tw: Wrist Bondage, Vaginal Sex, Control Issues, PTSD, Mentions of Past Abuse, Nightmares</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. The Teacher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Very engaging insight into local cultural traditions.<br/>*Very incompetent but very enthusiastic wrist bondage.<br/>*Green guy is great, he’ll boink you senseless, then bring takeout, then attempt to provide therapy, what’s not to love<br/>*maybe just this momentary smugness, I mean, get over yourself, flowerman<br/>*Invasion of the profane so you get confused further.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Of birds, they possess many. One kind is flightless and enormous in size and produces eggs of gargantuan proportions that may be eaten and taste satisfactorily when baked on hot coals. Another kind is blue in color, each of them has a crown of feathers on the head, and quite a vicious disposition. The latter do have sprawling wings but appear too lazy and fat to fly. I do not know why our hosts do not slaughter these beasts and birds for meat. In private, I proposed catching one and killing it to roast it later, however one of my companions suggested that, mayhaps, the meats of all these land beasts and birds are poisonous and we would do better not to risk our lives again. We have thus agreed that this must be the most logical reason for why the locals do not eat them.” </em>
</p><p>So they really scored a religion the main postulate of which was... freedom of religion. Or, freedom to choose any religion at all as long as it wasn’t harming anyone. If she were to imagine one that would be suitable for the aldamaari, she’d probably come up with something of the sort. </p><p>Should you say you don’t believe in a god when you actually admit the possibility, however tiny, of him existing, but merely do not want to grace him with your allegiances? That’s how she felt about the human god. If he was real, he was evil and did not deserve worship, admiration or reverence. If he was not real, the idea of him suited the humans nonetheless. </p><p>This is the same way she felt about this god or guardian of the aldamaari. He might have been made up by someone, say, the caretakers. Who then kept to a sensible idea of maintaining the lie. </p><p>But if that “guardian”, the namesake of the Monster, did exist, she had no problem with him. Even if he was the Monster himself, no discernible problem either. </p><p>All of this, and more, came to her mind because this underwhelming ceremony she was now a part of, resembled a religious one more than any other she’d witnessed or heard of in these lands. At the very least, it seemed harmless. </p><p>“Thank you all for coming. So very happy to see new faces here with us today,” Aoife tossed her head up to see if the woman speaking was addressing her, but it turned out to be the children on the other side of the semicircle. </p><p>It was nearing noon. The atmosphere on the beach was a perfect antithesis of what Aoife’s come to expect from Boaldaen. There was no food, no drink, no place to sit but on the sand, no music, no laughter, barely any conversations. And the ones that did occur were very quiet. In fact, initially it all reminded her of human wakes, with new arrivals slowly coming in, exchanging bows and whispers and spreading across the area with pensive expressions on their faces. The preamble would have been the same for her as well, if she and Florion hadn’t spent the last half hour hiding behind a few of the largest rocks on the furthest side of the beach, to pin each other against them and kiss like there was no tomorrow. </p><p>Three bonfires of humble size were erected on the sand beforehand, each an equal distance from the next, each surrounded by a circle of white stones. </p><p>There were a lot of children present and even toddlers with their parents, and not a single person was wearing a red ribbon. In fact, many weren’t wearing Boaldaen symbols at all. </p><p>They stood in a loose crowd forming a semicircle around a middle-aged woman whom Aoife only knew as another local dreamer, and a reclusive person who barely appeared around town during the warm months. She wasn’t wearing any Boaldaen ribbons or kerchiefs either. </p><p>Aoife tugged at Florion’s sleeve, and he bent down close so she could whisper in his ear. “When does the singing start?” </p><p>“No singing.”</p><p>This was disappointing. Were they just going to thank each other for coming, light some fires and then leave? “Oh.” </p><p>“Mm, why, want to sneak out and help me look for caves?” he whispered back, a grin pulling at his lips. The woman kept on pointing out people and talking about how much she appreciated them being there and, at times, of things that she knew happened to them since last spring. </p><p>“This is a bad metaphor. Very bad. You can do better. But yes.”</p><p>Florion’s palm slid down, aiming to squeeze her behind, and he inhaled to speak again, just before the woman loudly announced, “...And, of course, to my darling peer from Iquinous, who is remaining here with us this year and, hopefully, for many years to come,” she extended her hand, and all heads turned to Florion. With his expression having changed as fast as lighting from playful to dignified, he bowed courteously. “He got held up this winter, and our hearts went out to him as he slept. We are so relieved that he is unharmed.” This was followed by a general murmur of assent. “And we bid welcome to our town’s human guest, whom I thank from the bottom of my heart for being with us and coming here today, as well,” at this Aoife nearly squealed and bit back at the desire to edge to the left and attempt to completely hide behind Florion. So far today it was her primary strategy for whenever someone unfamiliar looked at her or appeared to want to approach and talk. But this time she managed to stay in place, taking only a small half-step. </p><p>Florion put his arm behind his back and wiggled his fingers. She grabbed them and leveled her breathing. </p><p>So much easier to blend in with a crowd that’s just there to drink and dance. This was even worse than singing on the stage, because no one was drinking, no one was distracted, all eyes were on her, if only for a moment. </p><p>She barely heard Florion mutter under his breath, “Guest <em> my ass</em>.” </p><p>Meanwhile, the woman moved on. “Allow me to explain to the new arrivals what it is that they ought to do. My niece here,” she said, pointing to a girl no older than ten, who held a large basket and was making her way to the other end of the semicircle, “will give each of you a piece of paper and a pencil if you need one. Take a few minutes to think about what you want to leave behind in your life. Then write it down in as few or as many words as you would like, fold the paper and give it back to her. Then, we shall burn them, and make the bad things disappear. Together, we shall free you from your constraints and grievances. Together, we shall rid you of whatever it is that’s holding you back.”  </p><p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p><p>Some people shook their heads when the girl approached them and instead produced folded sheets of paper from their pockets. They came prepared. Florion did, too. </p><p>Upon receiving hers, Aoife moved closer to the steep rock formations that surrounded the beach in an uneven wall, and dragged Florion along by the hand.</p><p>“Why haven’t you warned me?” she inquired. </p><p>“Because the right answer is almost always there already, on the tip of your tongue,” he said, handing her his pencil. “You’re not supposed to think about it too hard or for too long. You know, the way you usually do.”</p><p>She pursed her lips. “I hate you.” <em> I hate how you’re always right about me. </em> </p><p>He grinned down at her and flicked an eyebrow. </p><p>Aoife sighed. “May I use your back in place of a table, please?” </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>If she did think long and hard, Aoife would have probably <em> thought </em> herself into a corner indeed. Not that she believed that this ritual would help, but it was a genuinely soulful idea. One she’d come to expect from the aldamaari. </p><p>There were so many things she yearned to get rid of. Her bad memories, her fears, her grief, her scars, her nightmares, her insecurities. Each one of those could have comprised a whole list on its own. And then she would probably get stuck on formulating the proper descriptions. So, seeing as many others were already done, and gathering back around the speaker, Aoife took a deep breath and hastily wrote only one word on the sheet, and folded it thrice. </p><p>The girl approached her again, and Aoife dropped her paper back into the basket, as did Florion.</p><p>“What’s on yours?”</p><p>“You’re not supposed to tell anyone,” he said.  </p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>He looked at her intently for a few moments, pensive, unblinking, unsmiling. “Or it won’t go.”</p><p>While the girl went from one bonfire to another, carefully lifting a log here and there and stuffing notes under them, the woman started speaking again, and Aoife turned to listen, nuzzling Florion’s forearm. </p><p>“This driftwood has been gathered throughout the year since after the last Boaldaen, on this very shoreline, and dried thoroughly. Let it burn fast and bright, and take your sorrows away forever.” From the sand next to her she pulled a torch that, Aoife saw, was also fashioned from driftwood. The girl came back and struck a flint once, twice, and the tip of the torch caught fire. “Let go of them. Watch them burn away.” The woman proceeded to the nearest bonfire, as people shuffled away to let her pass. “In the name of our Guardian,” the woman said, bringing the torch close to the logs, which caught fire almost immediately. She headed off to the next one, and people followed her. “In the name of our Gods.” She lit the second one.</p><p>“But most importantly, In the name of all of <em> us</em>,” she concluded, lighting the last one, and then threw the torch on top of it.</p><p>No one said a thing. For a while, no one moved. They all watched the fire crackling, keeping a safe distance and clinging to each other. The participants didn’t appear mournful, although there was no laughter or smiles either. In a way, this <em> was </em>a wake, after all. Just, not for people. </p><p>Florion put an arm around her. Aoife lifted her head and saw flames reflect in his eyes. His expression was almost sullen. </p><p>She wondered what it was he wanted to be rid of. He did say he believed in no gods, but just how much he believed in rituals remained yet to be discovered. No ritual she’d even been part of has yielded any substantial positive results. Aoife hoped that this one miraculously would, for both of them. </p><p>It was, at the very least, harmless. </p><p>Soon, though, Florion made it clear that he wasn’t thinking about his note at all. </p><p>“A question, if I may,” he said. </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Does it not bother you when they do this? Call you a <em> guest</em>? As if you are not one of us?”</p><p>“I don’t think so.” And “guest” is much better than “outlander”, after all. Plus, this woman did not know her, or vice versa. “Wait, are you mad at her?” </p><p>“Feels like it.” He shook his head slightly. “I must confess, I really, really do not like this.”</p><p>It seemed as if there was, once again, something else he wanted to add, but held it back. </p><p>“Could you at least try and not be mad on my behalf then? Because I’m good.”</p><p>He chuckled. “Alright, I’ll try. And, sorry.” </p><p>They stared into the fire some more. A few of the people were already leaving. </p><p>“She said their hearts went out to you,” Aoife mused. “Do you think her or one of them came to visit you? And you…” her voice trailed away. </p><p>“Forgot?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Florion chuckled again and nuzzled her crown. “Aoife...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You...” Smiling, he closed his eyes for a moment. There was, again, that expression on his face, tenderness mixed with… What, exactly? She did not know for sure. “You are very kind to think so. No, none of these present came to visit me. Just you. And, honestly, thank gods for that. But Zakiyah should not have said that.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>His fingers tensed on her shoulder. </p><p>“Because it’s empty words. I detest empty words. Put up or shut up.” </p><p>The driftwood, being very dry and hollow, burned fast, soon leaving nothing but smoldering coals that turned to ashes by the time the majority of people slowly left the beach in small groups. </p><p>She did not want to go and, it seemed, neither did he. The breeze was warm on their faces, and Aoife sat down on the sand. Florion dropped next to her the very next second. </p><p>Looking at how the wind went on scattering the ashes that remained, she leaned her head on his shoulder. Aoife heard his heartbeat, steady and calm. She felt peaceful. She felt like humming an old melody she liked. Up until someone said from right behind them, “Well good afternoon to you both!”</p><p>Aoife turned to find Lensi the Frog huffing at them, his big ears flushed deep green. </p><p>“Oh,” she said, remembering. “Drat.”</p><p>“Drat’s what it is, alright!” Lensi announced. “Did you move in together, or something?”</p><p>Undoubtedly, during one of those mornings she luxuriated in Florion’s bed, Lensi arrived at her house with deliveries, and, judging by his expression, spent some of his precious time banging on the door in vain and then, probably, ending up very disappointed at the inability to do his job.  </p><p>“I should have warned you I wouldn’t be at home. I am so, so very sorry.”</p><p>He shrugged his shoulders, clearly pacified by the apology somewhat. “S’alright.”</p><p>“I’m surprised he hasn’t been warned by his sweetheart already,” Florion barged in, grinning. </p><p>“Sweetheart?”</p><p>“Mahri.”</p><p>Aoife turned back to the boy. “Oh! I did not know. That’s so adorable, I’m glad you’re s...”</p><p>“Hey, old people!” Lensi nearly yelled. “Stop patronising me! Where do I deliver stuff to next time and do I deliver it at all? “Cause if it’s his place, it’s probably gonna be the Temple gals. Come on!”</p><p>“May we get back to you on that in a little while?” Florion asked. </p><p>“Fine. Congratulations or whatever.”</p><p>He left, skipping barefoot on the sand. </p><p>“Florion, I...”</p><p>“Will you move in with me?” he blurted out. </p><p>
  <em> One damnable week, you sl…  </em>
</p><p>“Yes,” she said, without thinking about it any further. “Yes, I will.”</p><p>This is not how she imagined such a thing happening, if she dared to imagine it at all. According to human traditions, either weeks, months of courtship and polite, empty exchanges should have preceded this; or, much more likely, a negotiation and a dowry, all then followed by a pompous marriage ceremony. And all of it should have happened, preferably, in a string of sweeping, epic moments, and not because a courier boy was confused about where to deliver salt and painkillers. </p><p>But human traditions were crap. </p><p>She much preferred those of the aldamaari. She preferred this. </p><p>He kissed her cheek gently and ran his thumb across her temple. “Good. I do not want you to be just a <em> guest </em> when you are with me… But know that you can always change your mind if it's too soon, and we'll try it later.” </p><p>"I don't think I will, Florion."</p><p>Two people learning to live together. The house was big enough to smooth out the rough edges of this process, she assured herself. But her heart was still pounding. One leap after another. </p><p>Naturally, she wasn’t able to simply feel happy about it and move on, and drag him away to pack her things. <em> Drat, of course not. </em> “But… What if it doesn’t work out at all?”</p><p>If the latter happened to humans, which was quite often, there was nothing they could do, and they eked out that miserable existence till one of them passed. She’d seen enough men visit the brothel <em> and </em>her mother simply because they could not stand to suffer through evenings at home with their wives. But those wives. What were they to do with their lot?.. </p><p>“Then it doesn’t work out. And you leave.” As he said it, his face fell slightly. Aoife wanted to <em> shout </em>that she would not leave even if he took a habit of throwing dirty socks onto the kitchen table. </p><p><em> But how the hell do you know that? One damnable wee…  </em>Shut. Up. </p><p>“If you’re worried about your place,” he added after a pause, “you shouldn’t be. No one is taking it away. It will always be your home, because they’ve built it just for you.”</p><p>“Just for me? Really?”</p><p>“So I hear. Even the furniture.”</p><p>This did explain a few things. The toilet or the bathtub, for instance. They probably used ones meant for their children. But, also, why it still smelled of whitewash and freshly lacquered wood when she first crossed the door sill. All in all, this was a nice thought, but then her mind darted to a different one. About how, come winter, even if it all did work out, she wouldn’t want to stay at the dreamer house even if she was allowed to. So she would go back to her cottage. And wait for him there. Alone. Again. She pushed the thought aside. It did not matter. Months and months till that. <em> One day at a time. Please.  </em></p><p>“There is one thing we need to do as soon as possible,” Aoife said, finally allowing herself to smile. </p><p>“Yes! The plants. And your jars. We’ll move them right away.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes in pretense indignation. “Are gardening and glass the only things you think about?” </p><p>Florion’s face broke into a salacious grin. “Well, not the <em> only </em> things.”</p><p>She gave him a light push. “Ugh, I walked right into this one. No, what I wanted to say was, we should divide chores beforehand.” </p><p>If she ever dared to dream of a life with a man, that man would be nothing like the human ones, who thought that housework was not worthy of them and reserved for slaves, or servants, or women only. She wanted to do it the way aldamaari did it, as well. By dividing everything evenly. </p><p>Florion looked at her appraisingly and, after musing for a few moments, said, “That’s actually a great idea. Gardening’s all mine!”  </p><p>“All of it? No way! Hold on, we need to be smart about this.” Looking around, Aoife noticed a few blank sheets of paper fluttering under a flat rock. They were unused spares. Just before, she saw the girl leaving them there to head to the furthest side of the beach and gather seashells into her basket instead. “Score! You’ve got a pencil, right?” </p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>She stood up and headed for the stack of papers, while he fumbled around for a flat rock.  </p><p>After combining all three ingredients, they got to work. </p><p>“Dishes?”</p><p>“If you eat alone, you wash a dish right away. If it’s together, then together.”</p><p>“Laundry?”</p><p>“Each does their own.”</p><p>“Admit it, you’re just scared I’ll rip all of your smallclothes. By the way, how’s that white nightgown doing?”</p><p>Aoife sighed and said, “I mended it. Speaking of which, I’m doing the sewing. You’re <em> horrible </em>at it.”</p><p>He shrugged, smiling with the corner of his mouth. “Guilty. The bathroom?”</p><p>“I’m using the children’s bathroom, so I’ll scrub it. You do yours.” </p><p>“Fair enough.” </p><p>“Cooking? When we need to.” </p><p>Florion raised his hand. And there was this salacious grin again. </p><p>“Stop that!” she squealed, and he pulled her into a kiss, and she nearly let go of the paper she’s been scribbling the list on. </p><p>“Fine, jokes aside,” Florion said when he was done kissing her. “I’ll do the cooking.”</p><p>“Alright. Floors.”</p><p>“Me.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“My arm span’s larger. And you should do the dusting then.”</p><p>“Because my hands are small?”</p><p>“Because your hands are small.”</p><p>This went on for the next quarter of an hour, as they were enumerating, discussing and writing down every single thing that could be counted as a chore. </p><p>“No slacking,” she concluded. “You’re allowed to slack if you are ill, but otherwise, no slacking.”</p><p>“No slacking,” he agreed. “Shake on it?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>The girl was approaching them unhurriedly, her basket full of shells. Stopping right next to where they were sitting, she shuffled around it for a second and gave Aoife one. It was a large and pretty gastropod shell, blue, pink and white in color. These were quite rare. </p><p>“Thank you,” Aoife said. The girl nodded timidly and left, waving her basket. </p><p>“Does this gift have any particular meaning?” Aoife asked Florion, tracing lines over the smooth surface of the shell. </p><p>“No extensive knowledge of semiotics at her age, I reckon... So I guess it just means she likes you.”</p><p>Aoife liked this greatly, as well. The act itself, the shell, and the girl, too. “She’s lovely.”</p><p>Just then, a thought crossed her mind. The square and all the surrounding areas were always packed during the celebrations. It seemed like the whole town was there. But there was not a single child around. Were they all staying at their homes alone? Surely not. </p><p>“By the way, who’s watching over the children tonight?”</p><p>“That, incidentally, would be Zakiyah,” Florion said. “And older people who do not feel like carousing. The High Priestess among them.”</p><p>“Really? She is going to help care for a whole crowd of children?”</p><p>“Not precisely care, I guess. She’s way too old for that. But, maybe, she’ll read them a story or two, or something of the sort. They’ll all be staying at the Temple for the night, after all. The schoolhouse is too small to fit all of them.” </p><p>“I see.” This made sense. Although she did see quite a few older people last year, naturally, not all of them felt like participating. And Drifeo was very old, indeed, although extremely sane and sensible. “Do you know how old the High Priestess is precisely?”</p><p>“She’s eighty three.”</p><p>Aoife’s eyes went wide. No human lived that long. “Is it… Is this normal for you to live to eighty?”</p><p>He shrugged. “Sure. If you don’t overindulge, you can easily make it. And I do mean <em> you</em>, as well,” he touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “We’ll force you to climb uphill in the name of health, and inoculate you, and give you terribly bitter potions, and just generally take good care of you. Although some of us will act like asses about it…” He stood up and offered her his hand. </p><p>She cradled the seashell in her palm, and then pocketed it, along with the list of chores, and took his hand to stand up. The thought felt like a tiny unpleasant prickle. <em> Potions.  </em></p><p>“Florion,” she said, struggling to remember something half-formed, while shaking the sand off her robe and trousers. “A random question, perhaps. But. What happens if you mix two parts silverhaze and one part gwaren?”</p><p>“Uhm,” he furrowed his brow and scratched his temple. “A very bad nap, I guess. Why?”</p><p>“I think it’s something I saw in a dream.”</p><p>All of a sudden, his eyes widened as if in shock. “Dreams. This is an excellent idea!”</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>“Silverhaze is a strong tranquilizer. It knocks you out.” Aoife was well aware of that. “And gwaren is a stimulant with a somewhat delayed absorption. If you mix the two together, you fall asleep and then get <em> punched </em>awake in a couple of hours.”</p><p>This did sound like a very unfulfilling nap. And not something he should have been so enthusiastic about, seeing as his nightmares woke him up in the middle of the night without any help from potions. “Why would anyone...”</p><p>“Dreams!” Florion exclaimed, curling his fingers into tight fists. “It will almost certainly help you remember a dream you’ve just had.” He bent down to plant a short kiss on her lips. “Thank you!”</p><p>In a quiet voice, Aoife took a guess. “You actually <em> want </em> to remember your nightmares. Is this it?” Florion nodded. “Why would you want <em> that</em>?”</p><p>“If you wish to beat the shit out of someone who hides from you,” he answered, “you need to find and confront them first.”</p><p>The tide appeared to be coming in as they were walking along the shore.  </p><p>“Huh,” Aoife said, eyeing him intently. He looked very excited. </p><p>“Thank you,” Florion repeated. “Really. After we’ve reached the town… Mind if I run to the Temple real quick and get some ingredients?”</p><p>“I don’t mind. But to be honest, I already regret telling you,” Aoife said sincerely, cupping his cheek for a moment and letting go. </p><p>Florion grabbed her hand on its way down and kissed it. “I promise, I won’t be long. After that, I’m all yours. Hey, want a ride?”</p><p>“Is this another metaphor?” Aoife asked with suspicion. If it was one, then yes. Yes, she very much did. </p><p>Florion said, “Nope.” And pulled her onto his back. </p><p>“What about forcing me to walk uphill in the name of health, and all that?” Aoife inquired, holding back a smile and holding onto him tightly, arms around the neck, legs around the waist.  </p><p>“Just wait till evening gets here.” </p><p>She nuzzled his hair. </p><p>“M-m, why, will there be more stories?”</p><p>“A whole goddamn story book, Aoife. And I am feeling very festive already.”</p><p>And so did she. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Florion headed straight for the Temple after taking Aoife to her cottage and borrowing a basket from her. She said she’d start packing, and he assured her that he’ll be back soon to help. He almost ran all the way, and his heart was pounding, but he wasn’t sure of the primary reason. Most likely, because Florion felt so happy that the feeling threatened to overflow and spill out.   </p><p>She said yes. She did not even linger. She said yes. </p><p>So happy that he felt like howling. </p><p>The Temple was already filling up with children. Luckily, he found one of the Temple sisters, Daithi, still at the apothecary. She appeared to be serving something to the High Priestess. Florion froze inside the door and bowed to both of them. </p><p>He then turned to Drifeo. “My lady. Are you well?”</p><p>“Quite well, thank you. I will just take this to the next room and drink it in peace,” she raised a mug of liquid that smelled sharply, and Florion recognized it immediately as medication for arteries. “Happy Boaldaen now, dear.”</p><p>“Happy Boaldaen.”</p><p>She left, and Florion approached the large counter, which was fencing off a massive room with rows and rows of filled shelves. </p><p>He heard a chair scrape the floor slowly, heavily in the next room. </p><p>“I actually don’t think she’s well,” the girl behind the counter told him, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. </p><p>“Have a little faith, Daithi,” Florion whispered back. “She’s tough.”</p><p>The girl shrugged. “Hope so. Now, what can I do for you?”</p><p>He told her and added, just to be safe, “Only if you can spare these now.” </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Daithi said. “Some stuff’s about to expire so we were thinking of bringing last year’s silverhaze to Kenn anyway. Know what? I have some more grafts too. If you need them.” </p><p>“I do! Really appreciate it. Thank you.”</p><p>“No trouble. Incidentally, we may be running low on the one-sevens. But that can wait. Hold on.”</p><p>In a few minutes she returned with her arms full and unloaded the entire haul onto the counter. Everything seemed to be in order. </p><p>“I’m going to go eat now if you don’t mind,” Daithi said. </p><p>“Alright. Thank you again.”</p><p>As he was carefully stacking flasks and tiny paper pots into the basket, Florion heard a quiet shuffle from behind him. He turned to find Zakiyah’s niece standing by the door and looking at him, head slightly tilted. “Hello again,” he said. “How are you doing?”</p><p>She looked at her feet. He knew that she didn’t talk much. </p><p>“I’m Florion. You’re Nesiora, right?”</p><p>The girl nodded, still keeping her head down. </p><p>“Thank you for the seashell.”</p><p>Nesiora took a tentative step and yanked the hem of his jerkin. Florion bent low, so she could whisper in his ear.</p><p>“I think your bride is very pretty and nice,” the girl said. </p><p>“Thank you! She thinks you’re very pretty and very nice, too. Oh, before I forget again. Here. For you.” Florion reached into his pocket and produced a handful of marbles. The girl took them with a glimmer in her eyes. “There’s not enough to share with everyone, I’m afraid. But if you come over to the shop on Tanbark next week, I’ll make more.”</p><p>“Can you… Can you make rainbow ones?” she asked, forgetting to whisper. </p><p>“Of course. I’ll make as many as you want.”</p><p>There was a hassle at the door, and they both spun to find Zakiyah barging in. Probably the last face Florion wanted to see right now, because he sensed, with dreadful clarity, that he wouldn’t be able to resist saying certain things into this face, maybe for the sheer satisfaction of witnessing the expression change. Despite what Aoife told him, despite his own attempts at self-control… It was so hard to rein himself in sometimes.  </p><p>Lideo was his friend and he knew she was, in her heart, kind and reasonable, simply distrustful and prickly. Zakiyah was an entirely different story… Sullen, bitter, reclusive, and lonely by choice, and never forgetting to remind others of the latter at every opportunity, and of the alleged suffering she proudly bore. Always filled to the brim with words as empty as they were sickly sweet. Did the fix work on her at all? Worst of all, during the warm months she served as a school teacher. So her prejudices, which Florion always strongly suspected were many, could have easily been turned into a subject of a lesson or two…  </p><p>But she’d been careful not to be too obvious so far. Until this afternoon. </p><p>“There you are,” Zakiyah told her niece, voice clearly irritated. “They’re serving food now. Go eat.”</p><p>The girl obeyed but, just before leaving, lifted her head again and waved goodbye to Florion. He grinned and waved back then turned to Zakiyah, his smile gone in an instant. Self-control laid dead in a ditch. “Charming ceremony this afternoon. Loved the subtle jabs.”</p><p>Zakiyah pretended to ignore him and eyed the basket on the table, along with all its contents. </p><p>“We need to talk about you raiding Temple supplies.”</p><p>He marveled at her unique logic for a second. How exactly were these the “Temple supplies” when everything belonged to everyone? </p><p>“Are you quite sure we needn’t talk about something else first? Passive aggression, perhaps? I hear it’s very in.”</p><p>Zakiyah narrowed her eyes and nodded at the door. “Pack your stuff and leave.”</p><p>“Already?! I am wounded. You have wounded me. We haven’t seen each other for so long, and I hear you were so sad about me not waking up in time.”</p><p>“What do you want from me, you...” She trailed off. He wondered which insult was just about to roll off the tip of her tongue. Pity she never managed to say it. He would have cherished it forever. </p><p>“Oh, nothing much. Just one quick question. Isn’t it odd how an eight year old already understands that one human is not to blame for the actions of all other humans? And you don’t? ‘Cause I think it’s odd.”</p><p>“She’s too young to understand.”</p><p>All she had to do was walk away. Literally all she had to do. Or stand her ground and make a legitimate argument. Explain why she felt this way. Defend her truth. But there was no explanation, was there? People like her never relied on logic much. So instead, Zakiyah simply stared at him in disgust, slowly boiling. Florion wondered if she even knew how to insult people openly, instead of hiding her bile under coy smiles and sweet words, while probably expecting, not without reason, that her behaviour would be repeatedly brushed off. How to argue, or how to do confrontations at all. Doubtful.  </p><p>“Right, prejudice is a perk available to adults only. Ages twelve and up. You know, at first I thought that Aoife’s long become part of the background in Rheske. Just another resident. Not even worthy of gossip. I’ve since come to realise how wrong I was. Sometimes it feels like every other person holds a mysterious grudge against her. Why is that, I wonder? Seeing as none of you have even exchanged a word with her.”</p><p>“We have no reason to trust her. And neither should you. Stop thinking with your cock and use your head instead!”</p><p>Florion scowled and hissed in faked frustration. “Aww, yikes, I ca-a-an’t. Sorry! When it’s all covered in cobwebs down there and you’re about to get some, your head just doesn’t get a say. But you wouldn’t know how it works, would you?”</p><p>Zakiyah grimaced but still didn’t leave. “You’re vile, Florion.”</p><p>He shrugged. “Sure, I am a piece of shit. But she is most certainly not. She’s good, and kind, and loves this town and the people in it. Even people who barely deserve it. Including, probably, you. And you… You did not even give her a chance. You didn’t even attempt to get to know her.”</p><p>“Nor will I ever,” she announced stubbornly, turning away from him, disgust on her face. What did she expect, acting the way she did? That no one would call her out on it, ever? </p><p>“M, yes. And doesn’t <em> that </em> speak volumes about you?.. Hey, I have an idea. You’d make a great caretaker. You should see if they have any vacancies.”</p><p>Oh she was seething now. All of the impotent rage made her shake head to toes and grind her teeth. <em> Go on then, break in half, pretender.  </em></p><p>“You know what, you stinking sack of compost? I hope humans get her back soon. Her, and all the others. And I will be there in the harbor to watch them drag her, kicking and screaming, onto one of their ships, and… And I will laugh. And I will be happy about it all!” </p><p>Ah. There it was. Too easy. </p><p>He did not dash to Zakiyah’s side, he did not bunch the front of her impeccably clean clothes in his fist, nor did he pull her in. Florion remained perfectly calm and unmoving. “Oh, but you won’t, my <em>darling</em> <em>peer</em>. Do you know why? Because if they attempt to do it, I shall <em>slaughter</em> every single one of them. And, incidentally, my hand might slip and break the neck of anyone who feels like cheering them on.”</p><p>Trembling, she cried out and, stepping closer, pushed him with all the force she could muster, which wasn’t much, because Zakiyah barely moved him half an inch but, instead, made herself stumble and nearly fall backwards. </p><p>“You’re a monster!” she yelled once she found her footing. “You should take her and leave, and go live among the humans. See how you like it! And how they like <em> you</em>!”</p><p>“That’s quite enough of that.” They both turned to see the High Priestess enter from the back room, empty mug in her hand. Her expression was stern. “Beacons. Bright shining lights of our civilization. Ones that ensure our survival. Squabbling like two beasts over a bone. For shame.”</p><p>“My lady.” Zakiyah bowed, still flushed. “I was simply...”</p><p>“Simply spouting nonsense. And we shall discuss it at length later, when the children have been fed. Go make sure that it’s done.”</p><p>“Yes, my lady.” Zakiyah bowed again and, with one more angry glance at Florion, left for the hallway, closing the door behind her. </p><p>“And you,” Drifeo pointed a crooked, spot covered finger at Florion. “You also need to stop being so confrontational. “Every other person”? Despite what you might think, Zakiyah is one of the very few.”</p><p>He felt as stubborn as a frustrated child. <em>Ouhri</em> levels of stubborn. </p><p>“Dangerous few! Your girls, and the weavers, and smallfolk around town… They might feel affection for her. But others... Dreamers. Caretakers... Have you heard what the Head Librarian thinks of her?” </p><p>Drifeo nodded. “Naturally, I did.”</p><p>“Even if she’s chosen to serve. They will never accept her.”</p><p>“Are you sure this is entirely about the girl and her potential, my dear?” Drifeo asked him cautiously. “It sounds an awful lot like it’s about something else. Or, rather, someone else.” </p><p>He sighed heavily, conceding. “Maybe it is.”</p><p>
  <em> I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I don’t want her to be lonely. I don’t want her to feel pain. I don’t want her to feel rejection and distrust.  </em>
</p><p>The High Priestess nodded. “Allow me to assure you then, that in the long run people like Zakiyah do not matter in this regard.”</p><p>“But...”</p><p>“Please,” she intercepted. “Have a little faith.”</p><p>Florion opened his mouth to speak again but a shriek from the corridor interrupted him. In a few seconds, it was followed by a rush of hurried footsteps. </p><p>“Go see what is happening,” Drifeo told him. </p><p>He did. He found Zakiyah lying on the floor just behind the door, next to an open window. She must have remained to listen in on his conversation with the High Priestess. Two Temple sisters were running from the other side of the hallway. </p><p>Florion did not need to look closely to know what was wrong. The stings on Zakiyah’s face and neck were already starting to swell.  </p><p>“Quick,” he told the sisters. “Grab her legs, I’ll take the shoulders.”</p><p>The girls looked confusedly at him. “What...”</p><p>“She’s lost consciousness, which might mean she’s allergic,” he told them, while lifting Zakiyah by the torso and neck. She seemed to still be breathing. “We need to get her to the clinic, <em> now</em>.”</p><p>“Allergic to what?” one of the girls asked, bending down to help him. </p><p>“Hornets.”</p><p>They made it in time. The healer on duty injected her with medication right into the chest and applied ointment to the swelling. Her breathing evened. There were no stingers that needed removing. Florion watched him work, arms crossed, mind racing.</p><p>“Not a bee then, huh,” the healer mused, sealing a bottle of ethanol. “Damn, they are out in force this season. And so early in the year! Just this week had one other stung something awful, right here in our gardens. Her neck’s swelled double the size.” </p><p>“Is that so.” Florion’s heart panged painfully. He did not feel so happy anymore. He felt anxious again. No, not because of what he told her. That, he had no regrets about. </p><p>“I wonder which flowers around here attract them so much.”</p><p>“The one that stung her wouldn’t be interested in any,” mumbled Florion, barely paying attention anymore. He watched the open windows. </p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“It was a carnivore.”</p><p>“I see. We’ll set up traps then or something.”</p><p>“You do that, my good man,” Florion forced his face muscles into a reassuring smile. </p><p>So fake that he felt more guilty about this one smile than anything that happened in the last half hour. </p><p>He met Mahri on the way back. She was rushing in the direction of the square and frowned upon seeing him but then, evidently remembering he’s not an enemy anymore, casually waved her hand. </p><p>“Need a favor. Could you tell your boyfriend something for me… Us...” he asked. </p><p>“Yeah, what?”</p><p>When they were done conversing, and Mahri actually hugged him goodbye, Florion remembered the healer’s words. <em> One other just this week. </em> He felt like he knew for certain who this other one was. He wondered if Adronion would have cared to learn of it. He did not think so.  </p><p>Florion looked up to see mist descending from the Mother. <em> I think I am finally starting to understand what you are doing, </em> he thought<em>. But it still doesn’t make much sense. Start making some fucking sense already, Kenn.   </em></p><p>~*~</p><p>“I think we need to stop,” Aoife said, emerging for air. She’d thought of disentangling herself from his embrace but, in actuality, did not even attempt to do it. </p><p>“I agree,” Florion answered, fresh hickeys on his neck, lips swollen, shirt unbuttoned, hair disheveled. “But only because this bed is making my legs go numb.” </p><p>Crowds of revelers were already headed to the square, their cheering faintly heard, in waves, from inside the cottage. This distracted her greatly. Also, she was hungry. Instead of heading to eat lunch, they remained at her place under the pretense of packing. </p><p>No packing was done since Florion arrived. In fact, some of the clothes she’d folded beforehand and laid atop the bed were now a heap on the floor next to it. Aoife didn’t mind. </p><p>She’d spent enough miserable time in this very bed, all alone, thinking of him. She wanted to get him into it properly at least once. Maybe then she would finally stop thinking that she’s dreaming. </p><p>“And not because we haven’t gotten anything done? How dare you!”</p><p>“It’s Worship day tomorrow. We’ll have time,” he offered, still not letting go of her, and rising to place another chain of kisses on her throat.  </p><p>“Doesn’t this count as slacking?” she whispered, squirming on top of him. </p><p>“Nope.” </p><p>Just then, someone started singing horribly while passing her house. </p><p>Florion sighed. It clearly bothered him, too. He was weird that way. Most other aldamaari she knew wouldn’t even bat an eye. “Alright, fine, let’s get up and go eat something.”</p><p>“And I need to inquire about my shift.”</p><p>“There is not going to be one for you today.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>He reached up to stroke her cheek. “Do you really think they’ll ask you to work even one this year when you worked five last Boaldaen?”</p><p>Aoife nodded. Yes, she really believed so. “Of course. But I don’t mind. If it’s just the one.”</p><p>Florion was looking at her intently with a mysterious tiny smile, almost unblinking, and, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “What are you thinking of right now?”</p><p>He rose again and answered, turning slowly to put his feet on the floor, Aoife still on top of him and locked in his embrace, “I’m thinking of how lucky I am to have met you. And of how some people in this town are really missing out on getting to know you.”</p><p>“I feel the same about the former.” If luck was truly to thank here, which she sometimes doubted. “The latter, not so much. I’m fine as long as they let me be.”</p><p>“That so?”</p><p>She firmly stood up and nodded again. </p><p>“Yes, well.” He started buttoning his shirt reluctantly. “Then I’m doubly lucky.” Feeling his hair, he frowned and asked, “Hey, where’s my ribbon?” </p><p>Barely holding back laughter, Aoife nodded at his crotch. He moved the hems of the unlaced fabric apart, looked down and said, completely dumbfounded, “When did <em> this </em> happen?” and she started laughing uncontrollably. And then he laughed, too. </p><p><em> How did this happen? </em>was a fairer question that she kept subtly asking herself over and over again, all throughout the week, never knowing the answer. Some things she suddenly found herself doing, saying, capable of... Mere months ago, she couldn’t have imagined even thinking about them without shame and horror, not to mention attempting them. How did this happen? Was it always there? Was a little trust all that was needed all along?</p><p>So many changes squeezed into so little time. </p><p>“Look at you, Aoife,” he said, choking on laughter. “Remember the geese? I told you it’s all there. It’s all you.”</p><p>“Not all of it,” she answered. “Some of it is you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags: Fluff, Social Anxiety, Fictional Racism, Squabbling (NOT between main characters), Hornets</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. The Perch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl writes the name of a Twenty One Pilots song on a piece of paper and throws it into a bonfire. For reasons.<br/>*Green guy is so full of sass it spills over onto local bigot.<br/>*Local bigot unharmed by sass but harmed by hornets.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “One of my companions met a woman by the name of D*****, and their behaviour is unseemly. She is older than him, but neither a spinster nor a widow. Despite being a member of the local clergy dedicated to a heathen god the name of which I have yet to discover, she is not celibate, and open with her affections, and, I am afraid, my companion has started retaliating. They do not hide but go on strolls in daylight and openly dance in the square. I pray to God my companion changes his ways.”   </em>
</p><p>Luckily they managed not to get completely soaked. Finding the main dining hall already closed in preparation for supper, they headed, half-running, for the adjacent one which, although considered the lesser, still could normally accommodate hundreds of people at a time. Saying that it was packed would be putting it mildly. At first glance there was barely a spot to sit. Hardly anyone was eating, though. Mostly people seemed to stay indoors to wait out the rain. A row of tables along a wall held what remained of the holiday lunch. </p><p>As Florion headed towards them to get food, Aoife went looking for a place for them to sit. She didn’t want to part from him and, it seemed, neither did he, from her, but in the end this was the most sensible course of action. </p><p>Aoife was trying very hard not to bump into anyone, and it turned out to be nearly unfeasible. In a bit she managed to find a small unoccupied bench, in the furthest corner of the hall, by a narrow table opposite the man she knew the occupation and talents but not the name of. He wasn’t eating either, instead sorting through a stack of what she immediately recognized was sheet music. His gadulka lay in a hard case across the table. The man moved it under. Noticing Aoife’s hesitant look, he indicated that the seat was not taken. </p><p>“Just here to eat,” she mumbled, feeling panic rise to her throat once again. </p><p>The man chuckled lightly. He wore a rolled white kerchief across his forehead. “It’s Evee, right?” </p><p>She winced. “Aoife.”</p><p>“Sorry. I’m Helionas.” He extended his hand, and she reluctantly shook it. His fingers were even more calloused than hers. “Just a precaution,” he explained, pointing to his head. “I’m serving tonight. Is the ‘chord doing alright then?”</p><p>“Yes. Thank you very much. It is.”</p><p>“Good.” He went back to flipping through his papers. Some of the pages looked very old and yellow. What little she managed to read appeared to be meant for a quartet. </p><p>In a little while Florion, clutching a plate piled high with food, and a few utensils, found her. Naturally he did not feel panic upon seeing the man, nor did he take to explaining himself. Florion squeezed himself onto the bench, planted a kiss on Aoife’s crown, put the single plate between them, passed her a fork and addressed the man right after, evidently happy to see him. He also clearly did not feel uncomfortable in a crowd the way she did. </p><p>
  <em> Long way to go. </em>
</p><p>The food was cold but still good. Aoife ate in silence as the two men talked about Helionas’ plans for tonight. Apparently he and the band he performed with were to provide entertainment on the stage, and there was an altercation, however small, about the order of songs. Being something of their leader Helionas felt that he needed to dwell on it, so he took some time away from them, while the others went home to change. </p><p>Florion made an attempt to pull Aoife into the conversation but, when it did not work, left her alone immediately, only reaching under the table to reassuringly squeeze her fingers, and kept on asking Helionas seemingly random, amateurish questions about music, to which the latter answered with great enthusiasm and sincerity. </p><p>
  <em> Such a long way to go till I kill it.  </em>
</p><p>Soon though, Aoife heard something that she simply couldn’t ignore. </p><p>“I’m sorry. Did you say you play nine musical instruments?!”</p><p>“That’s right,” answered Helionas and then nodded down at his gadulka. “But she’s my favourite. And my first. Been practicing with her since I was six.”</p><p>He looked around thirty. </p><p>“Oh,” she said. “You’re really, really good!” And she meant it. It’s him people pushed back onto the stage after she was done with her little mournful number two weeks ago. </p><p>“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. And your high range is superb.” Hearing this, Florion moved a little on the bench, but said nothing. “This “lyre” of yours, when did you start with it?”</p><p>“Over ten years ago.”</p><p>He asked her about her instrument, starting with the number of strings, and how often she needed to mend or replace them, and about the material used for the frame, and of how ambidextrous she considered herself to be, and if the lyre was popular among humans. Then, how often and for how long she practiced with it. </p><p>Aoife said that now she played it a few times a week, but it used to be hours nearly every day. </p><p><em> If I was able to sit, or stand, or to hold it, </em> she did not mention, of course. </p><p>Helionas then put the case back on the table at her timid inquiry, and unlocked it to explain the main principle and show her how to hold this peculiar vertical fiddle properly, on a special belt.</p><p>“They appear to be somewhat similar,” Aoife mused. “Actually, very similar. It is bizarre.”</p><p>“Was just thinking the same thing! Could you show it to me sometime? Would love to see it up close.” </p><p>Florion remained quiet, not interrupting the conversation in any capacity, until Helionas addressed him directly. “Hold on, did you want music lessons?” </p><p>Florion shook his head, a shadow of a quiet, warm smile still on his lips. “Me? No, zero talent for it. I have no sense of rhythm whatsoever.”</p><p>Aoife considered his sense of rhythm just fine. Perfect, in fact, and the thought made her blush slightly and look down at the table to hide it. But he still noticed. His free hand crawled down again to slowly stroke her knee. </p><p>Outside, the rain seemed to be dying down. </p><p>“Everyone’s got their own talents,” Helionas offered amiably and then appeared to have noticed someone in the dissipating crowd. “Oh, they’re back. Right then, you two. Gotta go.” He packed the gadulka and the sheet music into the case and stood up. “Enjoy yourselves, huh?”</p><p>He squeezed her palm with both of his as a way of saying goodbye, and hugged Florion from across the table.  </p><p>The latter then sat back down and nudged her side gently. </p><p>“What?” she asked, pushing the last olive on the plate towards him with her fork, and nudging him back. </p><p>He ate it and said, “Nothing. Just. I’m as happy as the day is long, Aoife.”</p><p>She wanted to say it so much that these words felt as if they were actively trying to choke her. <em> Not here, not now, not yet. </em> When was the right time and place to say it? Was she even allowed? Was this normal, was she normal? What the hell even <em> is </em> “normal”? Aoife, closing her eyes momentarily and making an effort to calm herself down, said something else that wasn’t as important but was true, nonetheless. “I think this has been the best week of my entire life.”</p><p>He looked at her intently for a few moments before replying, “Mine too. But I’m sure we can do better.”</p><p>Oh how much she wanted to believe it. All of it. </p><p>Florion produced some lamia and chewed on it. She plucked a leaf from his hand, as well, although for a second she thought the look he’d given her was peculiar. It’s true that she did mention to him she didn’t like lamia much. But this was before. Now, she only associated it with him. His breath on her skin. His smiling lips. His sharp, white teeth.  </p><p>After a moment’s deliberation, Florion offered her his hand. </p><p>“Let’s get outside.” They got up and, after leaving the empty plate and forks in the basin of soapy water in the corner, started maneuvering unhurriedly towards the exit, hand in hand. Many people were wearing red, and already noticeably drunk. </p><p>Florion looked around and dragged her away from the road leading to the square. It felt a little like swimming against the current.   </p><p>She stopped him at an intersection. “Don’t you want to go to the square?”</p><p>Yes, she herself did not feel like being amidst the throng, or dancing, or drinking. But Florion… He seemed to feel so comfortable among them all. He did not shake with fear when starting conversations with people he barely knew, or frantically look for appropriate topics. </p><p>And he wouldn’t need to worry about people accidentally stepping on him. </p><p>“Not really. Do you?”</p><p>Aoife shook her head emphatically. </p><p>“Good,” he said, smiling. “It’s early, we could go back there later if we feel like it.”</p><p>The festivities were only just starting, and would continue all evening and well into the night, if not till dawn. </p><p>They skipped the turn that led to her cottage and then, a while later, the one that led to the dreamer house. A cluster of caretakers passed by them in a close-knit group. Not a single one of them was wearing the usual grey robes, and Aoife realised that if she were to meet one of them alone, she’d easily confuse them for fishermen. In fact, she probably did in the past. Now, though, they were unmistakable to her, and she even recognized a face or two in that crowd and stepped in front of Florion almost instinctively. The latter completely ignored them, not even gracing them with a nod. </p><p>Aoife started to suspect what he was planning shortly after the streets cleared. They'd reached the Road of Steps. The wide stone staircase was still wet with rain and quite empty but for them. Deafening silence of the mountain slope in front and, behind them, a chaotic ruckus of cheering, songs and howling. It felt a little like two worlds colliding, with them in the middle. </p><p>“I used to walk up nearly every day when I first got here,” Aoife said. “The Observation deck is still my favourite place to be.”</p><p>“We’ll go there later, if you wish,” said Florion. “But, seeing how the worms have all crawled out… I have a better idea now. You’re not tired, are you? Lots of stairs ahead.”</p><p>The only immediate staircase was all but conquered by this point, she knew of no others in the vicinity. </p><p>“Not tired at all.”</p><p>In fact, she felt exhilarated. And the festive mood she was in all day, the one that hummed in the background, now somehow doubled.  </p><p>He braided his fingers with hers again. </p><p>“Where are you taking me?”</p><p>“Somewhere I’m not supposed to.” He winked at her playfully and continued on. </p><p>Somewhere she’d never gone to. Aoife knew that the road led further, and, theoretically, around the mountain and into the Valley, but she’d never ventured this far before, there was no need to. </p><p>The Observation deck was behind them, so was the maw of <em> that </em> one cavern, and then another, and the third where, Aoife's heard, they grew mushrooms. The fourth, into which they took their dead. The causeway was clean and wide, and circled the slope uphill. It still appeared entirely manmade. </p><p>“We’re here.”</p><p>He left the road, moved some thick shrubbery apart to reveal a narrow path leading, it seemed, right into a steep wall of the mountain. Aoife got through the thicket, hands held high to protect her eyes, following close behind him, and straightened up before another cave opening which was twice as narrow as the narrowest one she’s seen around here, and… She froze in her tracks. </p><p>It was blocked entirely by thick metal grating, painted black. Not even a cat could slip through this. The iron bars appeared to be at least two inches wide, with no more than an inch between each one of them. </p><p>The opening itself looked manmade too. It was almost perfectly rectangular. </p><p>Florion reached into the inner pocket of his jerkin and produced an item Aoife’s nearly forgotten had existed at all. </p><p>A key. </p><p>Well, they did have a word for it after all so, naturally, they had the thing as well. But it’s been two years since she’d seen one, and a lock too. </p><p>At first it seemed so astonishing how they only had door latches and appeared more preoccupied with keeping the drafts out than other people. Nothing was ever locked. There were no thieves here, as far as she knew, although Aoife still couldn’t wrap her head around how it was even possible. But she’s gotten used to it since and even thought in passing, once, that she might never see a padlock again.   </p><p>“Am I even allowed to be here?”</p><p>“I see no reason why you shouldn’t be,” he answered cryptically. </p><p>“Won’t you get in trouble?”</p><p>“Aoife,” Florion said, and smiled, inserting the key into a narrow chink. “Stop thinking.”</p><p>Part of the grating opened with only the smallest of creaks. This “door” of sorts was well oiled and frequently in use. They found themselves in complete darkness upon closing it though, but Florion fumbled around and struck a flint, lighting a lamp that stood in a deep indentation in the wall of a straight, long corridor. All of it was so smooth and polished, there was no doubt that this tunnel had been carved by aldamaari hands as well. The corridor flowed into another staircase. Ever since leaving the dining hall, they were only going up, and up, and up. </p><p>She couldn’t see from behind his broad back as he led the way, but was vaguely aware of a bright light ahead. When Florion stopped, he stepped aside to let her see. Aoife’s breath caught. </p><p>It was a cave, yes. But it was at least a mile wide and spread as far as the eye could see and… </p><p>“There is no ceiling. How is this even...” Aoife muttered out loud, lifting her head. The rocky walls were high, and steep, and overgrown, vines crawling down them. But right above, there were clouds, and there was light, peeking down and playing off the roofs of dozens of large glasshouses. </p><p>“Florion, this… What is this place?”</p><p>He chuckled. “This is where they take all the compost you don’t need.”</p><p>It seemed impossible, yet here it was. Aoife rubbed her eyes to make sure it was real. Didn’t Mahri once tell her that the mountain was as full of holes inside as a wheel of cheese? She always assumed Mahri meant the caverns. This particular hole was on an entirely different level, though. And of course she didn’t know about its existence. There was no probable way to know, from the outside, that it was here. This cave could likely fit the entire population of Rheske, and then some. </p><p>Her head was spinning. Through the transparent walls of the nearest conservatories Aoife could clearly see rows upon rows of bushes with meaty leaves she’d come to recognize at first glance. </p><p>“Is this lamia?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Why did she never think of where exactly they cultivated it in such insane quantities? How many other things about the aldamaari she simply accepted, never giving them a second thought?</p><p>“I guess I always assumed,” Aoife mused out loud, “that they grew it down in the valley. Amazing! What else is there?”</p><p>She took a step towards the nearest glasshouse, but Florion carefully pulled her away by the wrist. </p><p>“Food. Mostly. Anyway, that’s not why we’re here.”</p><p>“It’s not?”</p><p>“I thought,” he started somewhat apologetically, leading her towards another staircase, this one safely fenced by a railing and pressed closely right into the wall, “that if you like the Observation deck, then you wouldn’t object to rising even higher.”</p><p>She looked up. The stairs were zigzagging up the rocky wall and nearly disappearing in the greenery overhead. Prohibitively high. Her emotions must have reflected clearly on her face as Florion studied it for a second or two and then offered with a smile, “Want a ride?” </p><p>Aoife resolutely shook her head again. “I’m not tired. Really.”</p><p>“I know you’re not. But it’s very steep.”</p><p>It’s not that Aoife was <em> that </em>scared of heights. To her, there were dangerous heights and there were pleasant heights. Observation deck was the latter. This, however… Unambiguously the former. </p><p>“I can do it.” </p><p>He nodded. “It’s perfectly safe. Look.” Florion rapped his knuckles on the railing. It resonated with an unmistakable clank. </p><p>“Metal?”</p><p>“Yup. The stairs, too. They’re merged.”</p><p>The railing and the stairs, sure. But how did they manage to merge the stairs with rock?</p><p>“Where… where the hell did they get so much metal?” The stairs seemed endless. And there were no iron mines in Rheske, as far as Aoife knew. “Nerupin?” Even this would require nightmarish logistics. </p><p>Florion shrugged. “Actually, I have no idea. Alright, do I go first?”</p><p>Aoife sighed but then unexpectedly discovered that curiosity managed to overpower fear and was pushing her ahead. “No, I go first. Let’s do this.”</p><p>The staircase was too narrow for them to walk side by side. This climb required concentration. Aoife tried very hard not to look down, or peek into the narrow gaps between the steps. Every once in a while, she stopped to catch her breath, and felt Florion’s hand reach up and support her back. </p><p>And every once in a while the stairs changed direction by way of a small platform, becoming crooked for a few feet, and Aoife had to stubbornly turn her head and press her body into the mossy wall so as not to rely on the railing too much, because the latter would surely mean looking down. The soles of her feet were starting to hurt from walking on sheets of metal. </p><p>It took some time. Actually, it took a lot of time, and soon she was panting, with sweat streaming down her forehead into her eyes. Yes, the sloping position and layout of Rheske, along with sufficient and regular nourishment, have strengthened her body a lot throughout the last two years, but this climb still turned out to be a substantial challenge. And Aoife was just about to start regretting her decision when she reached another opening to her right, nearly obscured by overgrown vines. Florion carefully pushed her into it, and she stepped into a narrow corridor, and then through it. And it turned out to all be worth it. </p><p>If she had to find a word, the word would have been <em> balcony</em>. But mountains can’t have balconies, right? It was, nonetheless, a perfectly level platform surrounded by a balustrade, the latter also, improbably, made of metal. </p><p>At first Aoife could see nothing but the sky as Florion emerged from behind her. Then she took a step and swayed. Florion caught her by the elbow. The wind was howling in her ears, overpowering the frantic banging of her heartbeat.  </p><p>From the Observation deck she usually could see some of Rheske, along with some of the shoreline. From here she could see everywhere. The town lay right below her, with people on the square barely discernible: a slightly quivering mass of colors. The Temple grounds, and the Great hall in their center, as small as a dollhouse. And then there was the harbor, and the boardwalk, and the beaches, and the slow, smooth turn of the bay to the north. The sky was clearing up, with clouds so fluffy and so low above it all, she felt like she could reach out and touch them.  </p><p>Was this how birds felt? </p><p>Mesmerized, she couldn’t stop looking. At first it was one sprawling painting in every shade of green and brown and blue. Then she took to finding or guessing familiar alleys, buildings and sights. There was an outline of an owl painted on the flat roof of the nursery. All the docked ships appeared as tiny as beetles. </p><p>Florion’s fingers found hers, and she turned to find him looking intently at her, not at the city or the horizon. If tales were to be believed, this was a place grand enough to make confessions. Yet words escaped her. He did not say a thing either, but brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers one by one. </p><p>She reached up to embrace him tightly and closed her eyes, hoping that this act was a confession in and of itself. </p><p>“What is this place?” Aoife asked after a while. </p><p>He pulled away. “They call it the Perch, because of course they do. They’re not big on creativity.” </p><p>By “they” she guessed he’d meant the caretakers. There was something in his voice whenever he talked about them… Not exactly contempt. Something similar, but tamed, detached. </p><p>“How do you know of it?”</p><p>“Before you go under for the first time, they take you here.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“To show the bigger picture and to give you some perspective, they say.”</p><p>It did just this, certainly. Up here Aoife felt insignificant, miniscule. But it only made her more happy not to be alone on the platform. Not to be alone, period. </p><p>The view below her was beautiful and breathtaking. But as much as she wanted to continue taking it in, she wanted to look at Florion more. </p><p>“The caretaker-in-chief,” Florion started, bending closer, “told me something about you. He said that you thought me lonely. And he said the idea was absurd.”</p><p>“Was it?” </p><p>“No.” And this one word, and the implications behind it, made her think of a deep, dark void from her dreams. Pressing his forehead against hers, Florion said, “I am so grateful, Aoife. Even with the memories I’ve lost. I wish… I wish I could express just how grateful I am.”</p><p>Had she really managed to see what no one else did? </p><p>“I am grateful too, Florion.” <em> I think I've been looking for you. Lost without you. </em>“For you.”</p><p>Two years in paradise, two years of thinking that what’s been bestowed upon her was enough. Two years of believing that it was. Two years of not daring to hope for more, lest she branded herself greedy.  </p><p>Aoife wished she was bold enough for grand confessions. </p><p>“Don’t ever want to part from you,” he said, and pulled her close. “Not ever again.”</p><p>The wind was cold but they stood, locked in an embrace, until she started shivering. </p><p>“I’d like to do something,” Aoife said, lifting her head up.</p><p>“What would you like to do, my treasure?”</p><p>“Take my plants and the ones you brought today, and transfer them to the garden behind the dreamer house. The ground should still be wet, so it’ll be easier to weed and dig.”</p><p>Florion looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were tearing up. The wind was really ruthless and piercing up here. </p><p>“Let’s do it then.”</p><p>Bird’s eye view was nice. Keeping her feet on the ground was nicer.</p><p>When they were descending, she almost looked down, but at the very last moment diverted her glance to the opposite wall. It was shrouded in descending mist, and was what seemed like miles away. Yet Aoife squinted, waiting for a ray of sunshine to hit it again. There seemed to be another staircase made of metal there. If so, she wondered where it led. Or if, maybe, this was just a trick of the light. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Fucking finally!”</p><p>“Just spit it out, you weird, weird man.”</p><p>“The black stone. How hard is it to figure out?” </p><p>Very hard if he doesn’t remember a thing upon waking. </p><p>“Alright. What does he want from me?”</p><p>The man with the bushy eyebrows rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Wait, “he”?! This is so much more messed up than I expected. Why do you have to do this to me, man? I was perfectly content in my little corner of the void!”</p><p>“I don’t understand.”</p><p>“He doesn't understand! Fuck’s sake. A massive idiot with an equally massive saviour complex! Just. That stone. Go touch it or whatever. And yeah, I’m out of here.”</p><p>Florion is not sorry to see him go.  </p><p>He is fourteen years old. By chance, he stumbles upon an overgrown goat path, and at the end of it finds a black stone that is so very cold. Two indentations open in the stone, two empty eye sockets, two bottomless pits. </p><p>Fat ugly hornets emerge from them, and a voice sounds in his ears. And he wants to recoil, and to scream, and to run, but remains motionless. He doesn’t know if he’s paralyzed by fear or if it’s something else entirely. Either way, they do not sting him. They hover level with his eyes, a perfectly lined formation, and wait for him to speak. To ask. To demand. To order.  </p><p>Florion remembers now. It, and what followed after. Not knowing why he’d forgotten. Maybe because his god wanted him to forget.</p><p>
  <em> Why do you say you are not one when you so clearly are.  </em>
</p><p>He will wake up in a heartbeat or two, and he will retain the memories. He will open his eyes and crawl out of bed carefully, trying very hard not to disturb Aoife’s sleep, and trying even harder not to look at her for too long, and not to think of just how much he doesn’t want to leave her side for even a moment if he can help it. <em> Need to, need to, need to. </em>He’ll get dressed in silence, and creep down the stairs, and go and find that path again. It might not even be there anymore, lost behind the greenery. But the black stone will be.  </p><p>It had been such a good day. Barring his idiotic altercation with Zakiyah, and what followed, an amazing day. Except there were words he wanted to say but held back, trying, with what he found to be mediocre success, to speak with his touch instead. It boiled over at night when, for a little while, Florion allowed himself to turn into an insatiable animal. To taste, to bite, to ravage indiscriminately. <em> Oh gods, she’s here, she’s mine. </em>To pin her down, to wear her down, to make her come, time and again, to come inside her, to turn her hoarse, until the sound of his name on her lips got nearly lost amidst the screaming, and the panting, and the slap of his relentless hips against her skin. Because this is how he felt but did not find the right words to express the feeling. And he allowed himself to be tender too, to slowly worship every inch of her, because this was also how he felt, and knew the words to express it but didn’t. </p><p>So hungry still. It’d be a while before he was even half sated. If ever. “Can’t get enough of you, Aoife. Don’t think I ever will,” his delirious, lust-filled mind pushed out these words in the darkest hours of the night, and maybe it was right. </p><p>
  <em> Am I even allowed. </em>
</p><p>But he just had to do it when she drifted off. There was no curling up next to her, no “simply going to sleep”. He couldn’t leave this thing to chance. He had to try. He needed to remember. </p><p>The taste of silverhaze always made Florion gag. He had no one to blame but himself for it though. The cloying sweetness of gwaren did very little to help. </p><p>So there he was, in the scarce light of a cloudy dawn, after what must have been barely two hours of sleep, shuffling up the road, with drunken cheers heard from down below still. And there he was, letting his feet carry him to his old “reading place”, and carefully step around the violets, their petals bent low and heavy with raindrops. And there he was, balancing on wet rocks and nearly slipping. </p><p>And the stone was there as well. Of course it was. A dream? Too much to hope for. </p><p>“Kenn. Are you there?” Florion did not expect his voice to sound so tired and weary. And his hands were already cold, and his clothes were soaked in the rain. He wanted nothing more than for this to be over, and yet he still dreaded whatever would follow. </p><p>“Yes. I am,” his god answered almost immediately. Florion wondered if anyone else knew of this way of communication, or if it was truly only him. Either way, it worked. </p><p>He sighed and closed his eyes. “I heard you needed me to come and talk to you.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>The voice was just as he remembered it. <em> The same as I’ve forgotten it. </em>Hoarse. Deep. Emotionless. Each word, a lash. And so very few of them. </p><p>“Well, here I am.”</p><p>This time there was a pause, and then his god said, “Acknowledged,” and not a single word followed. </p><p>Florion tried asking more questions, he knocked on the stone, he even blew into the indentations, because why not, might as well. Realizing finally, that nothing would follow, at least today, he got up and left, hunching his shoulders under the nasty drizzle. </p><p>
  <em> Is this it?  </em>
</p><p>His clothes, aside from the trusty waterproof jerkin, were soaked through. Shivering, Florion threw them off and crawled back into bed, to dawn light slowly filling the room, and to the welcoming warmth of Aoife’s sleeping form. She mumbled something in her sleep, but did not wake up or reach for him, instead turning away and rolling onto her belly. And Florion got a very, very good look at her back. All of it. </p><p>He’d seen it all before, many times. He’d pushed the thoughts of it away, out of respect, because she, mostly unspokenly, insisted that he did. She did not want this to define her. And no mark on her body could deter him, he loved to see her naked. <em> So why now.  </em></p><p>A minute passed and then one more, and he kept staring, propped up on his elbow, and couldn’t stop; grief, anger, compassion, fury, mixing, bubbling, slowly seething, until he had to bite his lip nearly bloody, or he would have screamed.    </p><p>“Massive saviour complex?” Sure, maybe it was his subconsciousness talking in the guise of that weird little man. But most likely it was Kenn himself, choosing a random form. In the case of the latter, <em> how about fuck you, almighty?  </em></p><p>There was no poultice, or ointment, or medication, or surgical procedure that could fix <em> this</em>. Barely a whole spot left. In places, there were chunks of scar tissue piling up on top of each other, and seeing all of this nearly made Florion growl as he imagined what’s been there before the wounds closed, and then couldn’t stop imagining as minutes passed.  </p><p>There was nothing he, or anyone in Rheske, could do to help. Not with this. With the other consequences, the ones that cannot be seen… He could. He was. He would. </p><p>
  <em> Seriously, massive saviour complex? Screw you to the ocean floor and back, almighty.  </em>
</p><p>He forced himself to stop staring and, instead, bent low to inhale the scent of her skin. To ground himself. </p><p>At least from then on, the nightmares stopped. </p><p>And the second week turned out to be better than the first. Most of it, anyway. </p><p>~*~</p><p>It actually took them three days to move her things. </p><p>They got the plants first and spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden. It was in a much worse state than Aoife thought, completely neglected but for a small patch of seedbeds that Florion evidently started forming himself days before. There was a glasshouse there, too, for some reason, but some panels were cracked, and the entrance overgrown. </p><p>“Do you think this can be fixed?”</p><p>“Yes,” Florion told her with a smile, following her gaze. “It takes two, so now it can.”</p><p>They transferred most of her plants, and the ones from his window sills too, with Florion answering her questions about the use of each. Until, finally, they got to the last one. </p><p>She hugged the pot and pressed it to her chest. “You never told me what it is for.” She would not ask where he actually got the seed from. Aoife sensed he wouldn’t give a straight answer, so this topic was off-limits, at least for now. </p><p>Taking a few deep breaths, he seemed to be musing something for a while until he finally said, “It’s a medicinal herb. Meant for humans only.”</p><p>“What do you treat with it?”</p><p>There was a pause before he answered, “Cruelty.”</p><p>“You can do that?!”</p><p>Florion shrugged. “Theoretically. Theoretically it can also make humans a little more like us. In a good way.” Was there a bad way? </p><p>He reached out to take the pot from her hands. She gave it to him, somewhat reluctantly. “Haven’t tested it on anyone yet,” Florion added.  </p><p>“Then why don’t you?”</p><p>“I should as soon as the capsules appear.” He knelt to dig the last prepared flowerbed.</p><p>“Yes, I also think you should.”</p><p>“Alright.” Florion nodded and continued working, taking extra care with this one. “There’s a man in Iquinous I used to talk to… Old as the hills and not a single care in the world when it came to, uhm, anything ingestible. So I guess I’ll send some back with Ouhri, write that man a letter, instructions and...”</p><p>“No,” Aoife interrupted. “I meant, test it on me.”</p><p>He tossed his head up. “Absolutely not.”</p><p>“But why not? Is it poisonous?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Then why?”</p><p>“Aoife, do you even have to ask? This is a mind-altering substance.”</p><p>She shrugged. “I’d love to have my mind altered.”</p><p>“Why? Your mind is already beautiful.”</p><p>Was it? Was that disgusting little voice that nagged her beautiful? Was her unending song of grief, playing over and over, were the memories she tried, but could not get rid of? Was her constant unease and fear around most people beautiful? Was all the doubt beautiful as well? </p><p>“I’m not so sure,” Aoife whispered. “And what’s the worst that could happen?” </p><p>“Again, theoretically,” Florion said with emphasis, “the worst thing, you will feel very sick.”</p><p>“I’ve already been sick for days from taking silverhaze, I’ll survive. Look. You said this week that if it works it’s going to, and I quote, make a whole bunch of things much better for everyone. And you need it tested, right? On a human. I don’t see any other humans around.”</p><p>“Please, Aoife…” For a moment she thought this was destined to be their very first fight, but then he finished with the plant, watered it scarcely, and raised his head to look at her. The grimace on his face was that of pain and worry. </p><p>“Please?”</p><p>He sighed. “Let’s go take a bath. I need to think about it, alright?”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>He touched a new budding leaf with the tip of his forefinger. “It doesn’t have a name, by the way. I think I’ll name this one Aoife’s Stubbornness.”</p><p>Aoife smiled ear to ear. </p><p>A while later, when they were both clean but still stayed in the water, he seemed to have made up his mind in the middle of a kiss. </p><p>“If we do this,” Florion said, pulling away, “we need to do this right.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“All the proper tests beforehand. No food or drink for at least three hours before. Empty stomach, empty bowels. Every possible remedy at hand.”</p><p>She raised her eyebrows as he continued, “I know it’s not poisonous, but one can never be too careful. So, first you need to test it by skin contact. You take a small piece and rub it onto your…”</p><p>“Already did that,” Aoife interrupted. “I rubbed a small leaf between my fingers.”</p><p>Florion squinted, gathering his hair in a bunch and squeezing water out of it. “Whatever for?”</p><p>“Was curious about the smell.”</p><p>He sighed. “Alright, what’s done is done, I guess. Was there any itching, irritation, anything like that?”</p><p>She shook her head, fighting back a smile. </p><p>“Then the next step would be to cook it and then consume the...”</p><p>“Did that too. I made some tea with it.”</p><p>“Aoife.” He sighed again, alert, and wary, and so comically protective of her. “Please don’t do that again. Why would you ever do that with an unfamiliar plant?” </p><p>It’s been a few days she’d found and copied “Ways of determining if a plant is poisonous” from a botany book, and followed it to a tee, but messing with him when he was worried about her (and pretending he’s got it under control) was so very easy that she couldn’t help herself. “Oh, I don’t know. But it looked nice, so I nibbled a teensy bit too.” </p><p>For a second there, Florion looked horror-struck but composed himself immediately. She found it adorable. </p><p>“Come now, woman, you don’t just shove things that look nice into your mo一” Upon seeing the smile that was stretching her lips, and how her gaze moved downward, he shut up midword. “Alright, fair point! Sometimes you do. But not when it's a <b>plant</b>!”</p><p>Her smile widened. And he, oh, he kept on playing himself over and over again. </p><p>“Re-e-e-eally?”</p><p>
  <em> I’m so in love with you, you seven feet of gullible.  </em>
</p><p>“Argh!” Florion grunted, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a kiss. She felt it was partially out of desire to wipe the smile off her face. If so, It didn’t work. </p><p>He leaned back, and suspicion started to slowly creep up onto his face. “You’re actually messing with me, aren’t you?” he said in a while, peering down at her. Aoife burst out laughing.  </p><p>This laughter was interrupted by another kiss, and by his hands yanking her wrists and firmly holding them together behind her back. “How about,” he whispered into her ear, “I tie these up and lick you raw until you beg me to stop. Would that be a fitting punishment? Or maybe I should do as humans do to their children? Put you over my knee and spank your lovely ass?”</p><p>She nearly choked on a moan. “Please, Florion...”</p><p>
  <em> Both. Please, both.  </em>
</p><p>He let her go and moved back swiftly, water sloshing around him. “Not going to do either right now.”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t help but whimper. He smiled with the corner of his mouth. Now, she played herself. She loved this game to bits. </p><p>“What I am going to do, however, is explain the rest, and you will listen, and answer my questions without any tomfoolery. Is that clear?”</p><p><em> I want you so much right now. </em> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Now. Did you actually do all of that?”</p><p>“Yes. I found the instructions in a book.”</p><p>“Alright. The tea. How much did you drink? Did it do anything, good or bad?”</p><p>He heaved himself upward on his hands, sat on the edge and reached for a towel. </p><p>
  <em> And you want me, too, and I still have so much trouble believing this. It’s not a beautiful mind that I have.  </em>
</p><p>“Less than a third of a cup. Not that I noticed.”</p><p>“And the raw leaf? Was it bitter, or did it taste like soap?”</p><p>“Definitely not bitter, definitely no soap.”</p><p>He nodded curtly. “Did you swallow the piece?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>The questions continued for a while longer, until Florion had no more left. He said they’ll try the rest properly once the seedpods appeared. </p><p>Aoife got out as well and thought that she could easily walk past instead of asking him to hand her a towel. She did not reach the shelf. He grabbed her around the hips and pulled her in, mouth open, tongue darting. </p><p>And, a while later, he stopped midway, despite her loud formless protests. Aoife reached down to finish what he started, but he slapped her hands away. “Nuh-uh.”</p><p>She whimpered again. </p><p>“So stubborn,” Florion said, a grin on his face. “Come on, get dressed, I’m starving.”</p><p>“Are you really?” Aoife asked plaintively. </p><p>“Oh I am.” He planted a kiss on her thigh. “But someone’s been playing me like a fiddle, and how can I not retaliate.” Passing her a towel, he added, “No touching yourself, sweet thing.”</p><p>“M-m-m, or what?”</p><p>Florion jumped up and, suddenly, she was no longer looking down at him but, instead, lost in his shadow. “Or I’ll have to find another way to punish you.” </p><p>Wasn’t it a remarkable thing, Aoife thought, reining in her lust. <em> Context.  </em></p><p>“But if you behave,” he added, brushing her lower lip with his thumb, “I promise to be very good to you tonight.”</p><p>He kissed her, mouth open, devouring her breath, and her legs almost gave out.</p><p>She wanted this day to never end. But she yearned for the night even more. </p><p>Later, after they visited the square and stayed for a while to watch Helionas’ band perform, and Florion actually dragged her to dance, she did not mind. Not because the wine’s gone right to her head, but because, come to think of it, none of it was that scary when he was around. </p><p> </p><p>And because she saw the garlands that weren’t there last year, and asked if he’d made them. </p><p>Each individual light had the shape of a flower. But more than that, it was the colors.  </p><p>The auburn red of her hair, the milky white of her skin, the green of her eyes. The exact same shades, replicated flawlessly. And no one knew. No one noticed. </p><p>They did find a big tree. Two or three levels above the square, in an alley with very few street lamps. It wasn’t a sycamore, and it wasn’t that secluded, with branches open enough to reveal a patch of sky above the northern beaches.  </p><p>He did press her against it, and kissed her, greedily, until, quite soon, the bell rang, and Florion turned her around, locking her between his thighs, one hand over her shoulders, another, crawling down, desperately clawing at her clothes until it succeeded. He did not tease anymore, sinking his fingers in right away, and as she bit her lip not to moan, clinging to him, the fireworks started.     </p><p>It felt more otherworldly than the dream. Flowers blooming in the sky, forcing her to keep her eyes open, and his touch, set at an elaborate pace, almost in time with the explosions, tugging at her eyelids at the same time. </p><p>“Don’t hold back,” he whispered right into her ear. </p><p>She couldn’t hear herself amidst so much noise, so she didn’t. </p><p>“And that’s one,” he said with a ruthless grin when she found her breath again. After that, they went home, and neither of them held anything back, and it all probably ended with five, but she’d lost count before blacking out, exhausted, sore and happy. </p><p>The weird little man’s shirt did in fact have a cat embroidered on it. And this cat stood upon a rainbow. So bizarre. “Hey, Maria,” he said, distracting her from it again. “Did you tell him? Did he take it?”</p><p>“That’s not my name.”</p><p>“Fine. Yeesh. What’s your name, then?”</p><p>“Aoife.”</p><p>The man raised his weirdly overgrown eyebrows. “Well that just sounds like Eve with extra steps.”</p><p>As if his name wasn't just a convoluted version of Michael! So rude.</p><p>“Hey, screw you!” she told him. “Also, leave. Now.”</p><p>He threw up his hands. “Fine, going, going. But if your custard tap wakes up screaming again, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”</p><p>She had another dream right after this one, but forgot both come morning. </p><p>On the second day, Florion hauled her clothes, bedding and other belongings to the dreamer house in several passes while she sat through another dreadfully boring music lesson. </p><p>They’ve spent nearly the entire service fiercely kissing in the last row, until someone close to them started singing horribly out of tune, while inserting their own lyrics to boot (including “fuck me why did I do this to my liver last night” in place of “praise you my friend your love brings the light”), and Aoife burst out laughing into Florion’s mouth, and couldn’t stop for a while, and had to hide her face on his chest, as he realised the reason and stuck a fist into his mouth, because it got to him as well. </p><p>The day was sunny, but not excessively so, and they went for a walk outside of town, dug out some herbs and flowers in the wild, and had more work done in the garden afterwards. Until, at some point, their fingers met, and then their eyes, and they were kissing again, and on the ground right after, and barely avoided crushing the newly erected flower bed. </p><p>This was somewhat sobering for her, and she pulled away. “We need to finish this first.”</p><p>Florion pulled her back down.</p><p>“Sure,” he said against her lips. “But later on I’m going to do things to you.” This voice was already doing things to her. “And do you know what I want to do the most?”</p><p>“Please, Florion, please tell me...” </p><p>He grabbed her wrist and dragged it unceremoniously to his crotch. Stone hard under the fabric. </p><p>“I want your mouth. I want to fuck it until you’re breathless and choking, and then I want to come inside it, and on your outstretched tongue, and on your face, and then I want you to suck my cock dry, clean and empty.”</p><p>She bit back a scream. </p><p>“Now could you please pass me the sheers,” he said with a pleasant, carefree smile. </p><p>“I hate you,” Aoife breathed out, shaking head to toe and smiling back. </p><p>Going up into the bedroom in the evening, Aoife discovered the book on her pillow, open to page thirty four. She spun to find Florion, holding two silken kerchiefs and looking at her questioningly. </p><p>“Yes,” she breathed out. “Oh please, yes.” </p><p>“Thank you,” he said, coming closer and stroking her cheek. “For placing so much trust in me.”</p><p>He was gentle when he undressed her, but, once she was naked before him, he took a step back and said, “On your knees, Aoife.” Already panting from his words alone, she obeyed. “Hands behind your back.” She was shaking and holding back a moan as he was tying her wrists, and closed her eyes as he placed the blindfold over them. </p><p>He wasn’t gentle after that, and she enjoyed every second of it. </p><p>Third day, which was the first of their work week, she looked around the now mostly empty cottage, mouthed a soundless <em> thank you</em>, and closed the door behind her. It’d be there, waiting for her to return. But Aoife hoped she would, by some miracle, never have to.  </p><p>Despite the fact that she was missing Florion so much during the day, her work performance has gotten better. For some reason, Aoife was no longer scared of doing something wrong and, as it turned out, lack of fear of failure lowered the chance of failure. She practiced music every day, and he was near, tucked in an armchair with a book, but always there to encourage her, to push her on. </p><p>There wasn’t a feeling in the world better than knowing this: someone is waiting to see her, someone is missing her, too, someone truly cares. </p><p>
  <em> Someone wants me.  </em>
</p><p>And she wanted him back, and the desire was so strong that it, along with his enthusiastic response, overpowered shame, prejudice, and any preconceptions she’d had before. They acted on their <em> want </em>constantly and, sometimes, in the most inconvenient of places. That poor, poor kitchen table. </p><p>“Someday I will stop doing this to you on hard surfaces. But it won’t be today,” said Florion, planting her onto his work desk. No available surface in the house remained unsullied. </p><p>They both were frantic and fast, and rushed through it for release every time during daylight, so they could be slow, unhurried at night, and explore, and discover. With words of confession very nearly escaping her lips every time. She held them back. She loved it best when he was kissing her, deeply, open-mouthed, without stopping, as he fucked her, tongue reproducing the rhythm of his hips.  </p><p>And afterwards, sated, they could do this other thing Aoife was having so much trouble with before. Talk. </p><p>“What was your mother’s name?” he probed one night, Aoife’s head on his chest, his fingers gently stroking her shoulder.  </p><p>“Lily.”</p><p>“How did she die?”</p><p>And she told him. </p><p>How it was a long and torturous process that lasted weeks. How her mother, growing ever paler and thinner, coughed out her lungs, and how the pain was nearly constant at the end. How Aoife herself, being twelve at the time, struggled to make ends meet, and washed other people’s laundry for money, until her hands bled, with wounds opening anew every single day. How every bit of faith in god she had was diminished. And how one night her mother struggled horribly for a last breath and passed away without finding it. Aoife held her hand until it turned ice cold. </p><p>They allowed her to watch her mother being lowered into the ground, but then she was dragged away. It turned out, they had some money. Her mother was saving nearly everything they had to give to the Convent, so they would let Aoife in and give her shelter, food and education. </p><p>And they did. </p><p>No one else in Rheske knew of this. No one else ever would. </p><p>It was a common story for humans, and she’d always thought things could have turned out so much worse for her, as they did for many other women. She could have been forced to stay in the brothel, if it wasn’t for her reviled red hair. She could have been sold into slavery. She could have been married off to some cruel man, and then never chosen to go across the sea. </p><p>But Aoife still cried silent tears for a while after he was done asking and she was done talking. Florion held her close, and kissed the tears away, and she fell asleep, and there were no dreams.  </p><p>In the morning, she discovered him working on another flower bed, separate from the others. He was placing large marbles around it. </p><p>“It’s hemerocallis,” he explained. “Daylily. For your mother.” </p><p><em> I’m so in love with you, </em>she thought, kneeling down next to him as if to help but, instead, clinging to him with both arms, and trying not to cry, and failing. </p><p>This was how Florion discovered something that she did not know was there. It turned out to be much easier for her to talk about the <em> painful bits </em>in the darkness. After they’ve made love. When she was too exhausted to move. But not too exhausted to speak. And the darkness had to be completely impenetrable. </p><p>So he closed the curtains beforehand and kept on asking. Until she told him everything. </p><p>There was a certain way of punishing those who did not follow orders at the Convent. If you’ve made a mistake or were supposedly slacking off. Usually, a couple of hours kneeling, or a night in the black cell, or a casual beating. Never too much to break bones or rupture organs, or you wouldn’t be able to work. This used to be the way of things before the old Mother Superior passed away and a new one took her place. She found the punishments too light and the beatings, too casual. She turned everyone against each other, and rewarded those who told on their friends. If you struggled, if you defied her in any way, you were whipped, or cut, or branded. She was always careful not to kill or to maim irreparably though, so after torturing someone, she’d order for medication to be generously applied. They had to work and serve after all. And live. So she could continue torturing them. </p><p>And no one struggled and defied her as much as Aoife did. </p><p>It's a good thing she was able to diligently pretend to hate music and singing, or they would have taken these from her. It's a good thing she did not have any friends, or they would have tormented them in her stead and made her watch. </p><p>It was another woman who did or ordered this, although she had her helpers, and they were just as cruel, and they were well off. Yet somehow, along the way, Aoife started to firmly believe that in a world where women weren’t so oppressed, one like the Mother Superior would have been much less likely to exist. It was only other women she tormented, the altar boys and the librarians were safe from her or, even worse, on her side. It was a man who guided her actions, commanded her, encouraged her, a man who stood above it all, and kept his hands clean, very nearly considering himself a saint. He did not lock himself away, he was not required to be celibate, he was rich off common folk’s donations and he had a son as vile and as two-faced as him. This son, and what he did or tried to do, Aoife did not mention to Florion. </p><p>“I could have stopped,” she said, eyes open into the blackness, fingers squeezing Florion’s hand. “I could have been meek. I could have…” She trailed away.  </p><p>“No,” he said, pulling her closer, his voice low, dry, horror-struck. “You couldn’t have. Because you’re you.”</p><p>
  <em> What even am I, Florion.  </em>
</p><p>“You’re headstrong, and powerful, and kind, and good, and you would never, ever give up. And would always defy evil. And you deserve…” He took a deep breath. “Aoife, I am so tired of not saying this other thing.”</p><p>“What thing?”  </p><p>“That I love you. I love you. So very much.”</p><p>In her old life her mother was the only one who said these words to her. Her mother was the only one Aoife ever said them to. But since she came to Rheske, she’d heard them so many times. </p><p>
  <em> Mi amas vin.  </em>
</p><p>It was in books. Her peers said it. The baker said it in response to praise. <em> Dankon, kara, mi amas vin. </em> Mahri said it and blew raspberries against her neck. Maeve said it, and during better times too, not just when she was glass-eyed and twitchy. The clergy said it during service. I love you, and you, and you as well. Come take my hand and receive a blessing, child, don’t worry and don’t rush. <em> Mi amas vin. </em> At a point Aoife thought that maybe these words meant something else for the aldamaari. That she ought to look for a more appropriate phrase in a thesaurus, and she did but found none. </p><p>Yet the way he said it sounded so very different. No one said it like he did. There was no other phrase. There were just multiple meanings behind it. And context mattered. </p><p>She answered. Words she struggled to say for so long but wanted to, so very much. And now, she did. </p><p>This was her own personal perch, higher than the one above Rheske. She’d hoped she would be able to climb it one day, and knew it wouldn’t be easy, but not being alone there helped.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Mentions of Violence/Abuse, Death of a Loved One (mentioned), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extensive Description of Scarring, Mild Power Dynamics, Oral Sex, Semi-public sex (brief), Blindfolding (briefly mentioned), Dirty Talk, Big Romantic Gestures</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. P.IV Bottle By Her Bed//The Butterfly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Local dimitar gougov is great<br/>*Local fireworks are great<br/>*Moving in together is great<br/>*Talking through painful stuff with someone you trust is great<br/>*Confessing love to each other is great<br/>*So of cOuRSe everything around them is about to go to shit, right?! Weeeeellll...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Of seafaring vessels, they possess very many. The designated names of them, I do not know. One, and three, and four masted ships with metal in the decks. Some are meant for fishing and do not travel far, while others are thrice as big as our late caravel and appear capable of crossing the seas. It is unclear, therefore, why the green heathens have not been seen in our waters. These vessels are also, no doubt, equipped with much heavy weaponry although we have not been allowed into the Harbor to take a closer look.” </em>
</p><p>One of the port couriers barged into the workshop two hours after Florion started working, popped her head in the doorway and yelled out, “She’s docking!”</p><p>“Alright, thank you.”</p><p>Florion cooled the punty, put it back into the holder and wiped the sweat off his forehead and neck with a rag. </p><p>Promising to return as soon as possible, he left the shop and headed for the harbor. He did not know why his heart was pounding so wildly. Perhaps because he still hadn't found the right words to say, hell, he did not even look for them, and would have to improvise. But mostly, he guessed, it was just because he was missing Ouhri so badly. </p><p>Florion saw him standing by the seafront, unmoving, as dock workers rushed past him with cargo. None of his shipmates stood with him. He was all alone. And he looked sort of odd. </p><p>It was something in his expression, Florion realised, coming closer and smiling ear to ear when Ouhri noticed him. The look, and this hug Ouhri gave him… The latter felt like it was forced.    </p><p>“You’re up...” Ouhri said as Florion kissed him. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m up. Been up for weeks. See? I’m okay.”</p><p>Ouhri said, “I’m happy.” But he didn’t sound happy. He sounded tired. Not Ouhri the Broken shining through, just… flat, exhausted. Perhaps he’d had a night shift just before? Was it too much to hope for?..</p><p>“What's up with this?” Florion inquired, pointing at Ouhri’s hair. It was dark blue, almost black, as usual, but it used to be shoulder length, and now he’d cut it. Poorly. On his own and with a dull dagger probably. There was barely anything left in the back, and some sparse thin bangs in front, falling into his eyes, which led to Ouhri adjusting them from time to time. It looked abysmal. </p><p>He shrugged. “Just felt like cutting it.”</p><p>Florion was about to ask why Ouhri would not shave it all the fuck off, but this <em> look </em> stopped him. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just <em> the Broken. </em> It was an awful lot like fear or horrible grief, or both. He’d also suddenly remembered that there was an ancient tradition in Iquinous, nearly forgotten and not really maintained nowadays, of cutting your own hair short in a specific manner when someone you knew died young. </p><p>“It isn’t really about the hair, is it.”</p><p>“No, not really.”</p><p>That’s when he became completely certain there was something terribly wrong. Outside kind of wrong, not inside.</p><p>“Gods, man. Is it your shipmates? Is your family alright?”</p><p>“Yes, they’re fine,” Ouhri said. “Mum asked me to send you her regards.”</p><p>Florion attempted a smile. “Thanks, <em> pumpion</em>.”</p><p>Ouhri scraped his teeth together. He didn’t retort, he didn’t smile in return. So it wasn’t his peers or family then. </p><p>“What happened out there? What happened to <em> you</em>?”</p><p>Ouhri said, “I need a drink. Please, Flor, let’s get a drink.”</p><p>Florion couldn’t dare hazard a guess about what was going on, but felt like kissing and embracing him again, so he did. For a moment, when Ouhri clung to him, he thought there were tears coming. But sober Ouhri didn’t cry and probably wasn’t even capable of it anymore, not since his childhood days. </p><p>“Let’s get you as many drinks as you need then.”</p><p>He dragged him by the hand towards the dreamers’ house, but had to slow down, because Ouhri was always sort of sluggish on land. And doubly sluggish now, for some ominous reason which Florion feared and yet desperately wanted to learn. But he didn’t ask any questions on the way. Ouhri clearly wanted to get some alcohol inside before he’d start talking. And that’s a wish you ought to respect. </p><p>So when they were there, and Ouhri went to the bathhouse, Florion hastily procured one of the bottles stashed in the pantry from last fall. He felt for them and grabbed one at random, not wanting to waste time on lighting a lamp. “<em> Don’t rush'' my ass</em>. It turned out to be plum wine from beyond the Lihula Valley, dark and likely fortified. When he got back, holding it and also a single glass, there were clothes disorderly strewn about on the marble floor, and Ouhri was in the pool, completely submerged under the surface, hugging his knees. Florion uncorked the bottle and waited. A solid minute passed, if not more. There was a second there when he started panicking and stood up, right before a bubble floated up, and then Ouhri himself emerged and gasped for air. </p><p>“What. The fuck. Was that.”</p><p>Upon swimming to the edge, Ouhrion laid his palms and his forehead on the cold marble. His voice was hoarse and muted, but the echo of the room helped. </p><p>“I don’t really want to know how it feels. But. I kind of also do. But I don’t.”</p><p>“How what feels?”</p><p>“Drowning,” Ouhri said. And then he started crying. </p><p>His sobs were dry, ragged, and absolutely <em> horrifying </em> in their intensity. </p><p>Florion walked around the pool, bent down, took him by the elbows and dragged him up and out, forcefully. </p><p>He then went back to the small table top in the corner, contemplated pouring some wine into the glass, thought better of it, and brought the whole bottle back. Ouhri grabbed it and chugged down no less than a quarter before putting it down. </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>After a pause, Ouhri said, “Humans.” And took another big gulp of wine. It smelled of prunes. It wasn’t nice. He didn’t care. He looked contused. He looked browbeaten. He looked… Like he did on his worst days, except even <em> worse </em>than that. There was not a trace of his usual confidently suave public demeanor, not a trace of the Playful. But the other Ouhri, the one that was always a little Broken, a little incomplete, a little crazy. The one that not many others, beside Florion, even knew existed. That one was right here now, in force. </p><p>“Humans what.”</p><p>The bottle clanged on the marble surface. Ouhri hid his face in his palms and hissed through them. Then he said, still not looking up, “I’m sorry. You deserve better. You’re up and you’re alright. I should be happy. I owe you <em> happy</em>.”</p><p>“You don’t owe me shit. Humans what.” </p><p>Ouhri coughed, took another swig, coughed again, shook his head. He was getting there. </p><p>Then he got there. “The day before last. Past Nerupin. Were headed back here. Saw a ship. Human. Anchored. It was, maybe, couple of niles from us initially. We got binoculars out. And just. Observed. Bored. Sea calm. Leto brought a bunch of salted dry seaweed up for us. So shoved that down our faces. Laughed. At first there was nothing going on. Some commotion on their deck, maybe. We were getting closer. Ought to have been passing it in a few. Thought maybe we’d get close enough to take a good look. Leto asked, hey, think they know to sun-dry their sareh. So it’s crunchier. And then.”</p><p>Florion waited. His heart howled. As if it already knew what was coming. </p><p>“Fuck,” Ouhri said, and banged his fist on the floor. This also wasn’t like him at all. Normally he didn’t swear. He was always a good, polite, nice boy, because mama meticulously raised her pumpion to be nice and polite. </p><p>Florion said nothing. </p><p>“Then they dragged some people onto the deck. And. Started shoving them. Into the water. One by one.”</p><p>Florion waited. His teeth were so tightly pushed together, his jaw started to ache. He could see the picture in his mind. He wished so badly to scrape it off, already. And yet he didn’t even witness that. </p><p>“When we realised what was happening. We dropped lifeboats. Of course. I rowed too. I rowed like my own life depended on it. Those people in the water. Still holding on. Some were. Swimming to us. We could have gotten them out. Then from the deck. Pointed at us. And then they. They got ranged weapons out. And started shooting. Not at us. At people in the water. Like it was a sport. Those who were not shooting. They laughed. And cheered.”</p><p>Gods be damned.</p><p>“Bud...” Florion couldn’t handle this anymore and reached out to hold him, but Ouhri was crying again, and this time it was actual tears streaming down his face, and he dodged the embrace and shook his head wildly.  </p><p>“They shot one through the eye. I saw it, Flor. He was right in front of me. I was reaching out for him. And he, for me. He was just. Barely more than a kid. And then there was a bolt in his eye. And splatter. On me. And he一”</p><p>A couple of heartbeats later Ouhri was <em> wailing</em>.  </p><p>And Florion saw the whole thing. As if he was there. Humans, obviously having waited for a random aldamaari ship, which just so happened to be this one, to pass by the regular cargo route. This was planned. This was on purpose. Their filthy faces, roaring with laughter as they were <em> murdering </em> their brethren. His mind just couldn’t grasp the concept. It wasn’t capable... His anger bouts. His rage. The things he’d seen in dreams. His close enough acquaintance with hate and disdain and mental anguish and doubt. He wasn’t pure. But Ouhri… Ouhri, who only ate unfertilised eggs. Ouhri, who kept saying to anyone who would listen that, <em> sure, elasma are big and vicious and breed like crazy and ram into our boats and want to kill us and snack on our limbs giving extra work to Kenn but maybe don’t shoot and eat them anyway</em>? Ouhri, who cried for an hour when he was twelve after having accidentally crushed a hermit crab underfoot? Ouhri, who’d get hammered and sob at sunsets like a big dumb adorable droll that he was?  </p><p>Now he drank, and he cried, and Florion didn’t stop him, or move, or speak. There was a new phrase uttered here and there, and in each one of them, someone died. And died. And died. </p><p>Moments ticked away.</p><p>If it turned out that someone from the Butterfly perished, the caretakers, and Kenn, they might have decided that it meant war. And war would probably mean, <em> the seven. </em>Indiscriminately. Among other things. But no one on the Butterfly was even wounded. Not physically. Because it wasn’t about that for the humans. That’s not what they’d been doing that for. </p><p>“Did you get <em> anyone </em> out?” he asked, finally, after a very long pause. </p><p>“One,” Ouhri croaked. “Darragh translated. The ship was called Indomitable. There was a mutiny. There were some. Who wanted to plunder our waters. Despite the agreement. Hunt delphinids. And turtles. For meat. The Captain said, it’s not allowed. Some took his side. They killed the captain first. The mutineers. They killed everyone who opposed them even slightly. That man. He was the first mate. And that kid. He was a cabin boy. And also his son.”</p><p>Fucking hell. </p><p>“Where is the man now?”</p><p><em> Wrong question, Florion. </em> Wrong, wrong question. Past tense should have answered it. </p><p>“In the early hours of this morning. Just before we turned to port. He tied himself to a full crate and. Dropped it overboard. I saw. I saw the whole. Fucking. Thing. I didn’t… I couldn’t, Flor. I was too far away. I一”</p><p>Now Florion felt contused as well. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He dropped to his knees and all but dragged Ouhri into his arms. This time the latter didn’t resist. The fight, if there was any at all to begin with, has gone out of him. </p><p>Ouhri had no coping mechanisms for this. He was always kind, selfless, like most of them were, and even more than most <em> but not me not me not me </em> but he also was a little broken. And now, the cracks on the glass were spreading. </p><p>Florion didn’t have the words. Not a single one. He didn’t know if there could be words of consolation for something like this. He desperately needed Aoife. She’d find the right words to say, being that much stronger than both of them combined. Having survived what she did. She’d find a way to explain, to make it <em> make sense</em>, any sense at all. </p><p>Ouhri did yet have some words to say, though. And the tone in which he said them… It was pure bile. “Those goddamn monsters. They kill each other and then they turn to us to help them. Use us as a last resort. As if we were…”</p><p>“Don’t finish the thought,” Florion interrupted, pulling away. “Don’t, because I know it’s not you, Ouhri, come on. Let’s get you up. You need rest.”</p><p>He did not argue. “I can’t sleep,” Ouhri muttered, and Florion sighed with what felt a lot like relief. This, at least, he could help with now.   </p><p>Back in Iquinous, if Ouhri was to stay the night after disembarking, they slept in the same bed, not wanting to spend any of their limited time apart. This wasn’t an option now. At least, not one Aoife would welcome, most likely. Last week Florion was planning to get a room ready for him, maybe on the first floor, rightfully thinking that they’d have time to do it in the afternoon after his arrival. </p><p>No time for it now. No matter; Ouhri needed something familiar anyway, even if it was just the scents and the clutter. So Florion got him into a bathrobe and dragged him up to the third floor, and sat him on the bed. </p><p>And did not take the bottle from him. </p><p>“Someone’s been here,” Ouhri said all of a sudden, lifting his head and twitching his nose. “Boy, girl?”</p><p><em> Not the right time for this, buddy. </em> “Girl.” </p><p>Ouhri took another swig of wine. </p><p>“Nice. Do I know her?”</p><p>“I’ve been told you do.”</p><p>Ouhri squinted, probably still not drunk enough to stop being jittery. He expected an elaboration but wasn’t given any. Then he turned on the bed, towards the pillows. </p><p>“What the,” he bent down and reached for one of those, and fished out a hair, so clearly red against the white pillowcase, and lifted it to the light, “hell, Flor?”</p><p>Florion shrugged. There was only one person in the whole of Rheske with hair like this, so it was immediately obvious what the question entailed. </p><p>“Is this. Is this a thing? Is this some kind of <em> thing </em>for you?”</p><p>“Is what a thing.”</p><p>“Do you have a fetish? Are you simply curious if it’s possible to. Just… What even is this? God, Flor. Human? <em> That </em> human?”</p><p>“In order: it’s not a thing. Sure, I have a fetish, for her specifically. No, it’s not about curiosity. Yes, that human.”</p><p>Ouhri jumped up awkwardly and stumbled around the room. He saw other signs of Aoife’s presence. A night gown thrown across a chair. A stray powder puff on one windowsill. The jar from it, with powder against perspiration, on the other. A bottle of opy milk. A hairbrush with some more red hairs. </p><p>“She’s been here more than once.”</p><p>“Nearly every day and night for the past two weeks.”</p><p>“That good, huh.”</p><p>“It’s not about that. I mean it’s not <em> just </em>about that.”</p><p>“Then what is it about?</p><p>“I’m in love with her.”</p><p>Desperately, maddeningly, happily in love with her. <em> Dear gods, it’s mutual. </em> If only he could have taken those words of hers and shoved them right into his heart so they lived there, he would. <em> “I love you too. I think I’ve been in love with you from the very first moment I saw you.” </em>She deserved all the love he could possibly give her, and more. </p><p>Ouhri rolled his eyes. “Oh for crying out loud! Seriously?”</p><p>“You’re waging war to the wrong side. She’s not one of those on deck, Ouhri. She’s one of those in the water.”</p><p>“But how do you know this?”</p><p>Florion sighed. “I just know, alright? I just do.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you. This. What even… I mean I thought she cared about you, yes. And I took advantage of that. In a way. But.”</p><p>He was confused. And he was drunk. And angry. And this anger found an entirely innocent target. The one human who had absolutely nothing to do with what happened. Florion did not want to fight. He wanted to pour a sleeping draft into his dearly beloved broken bastard, and embrace him, and watch him drift off to sleep, and hope that maybe there would be a way to make things better later. </p><p>“I don’t like this one bit, Flor. Are you taking her back with us?”</p><p>Florion sighed again. Might as well rip the scab off completely. </p><p>“I’m staying here. Sorry.”</p><p>Ouhri simply stared at him with those bloodshot eyes, but said nothing. </p><p>Florion really, really did not want to fight. “Please give her a chance,” he asked. “Please.”</p><p>Ouhri just hid his face in his palms. </p><p>“I’ll bring you some silverhaze.”</p><p>When he returned, Ouhri was already in bed, hugging a pillow, body numb and rigid. </p><p>“Don’t you want me to change the sheets?” Florion asked reluctantly, passing him a phial. </p><p>“No, leave them. She smells nice, at least.” </p><p>“You piece of shit,” Florion said amiably. </p><p>Leaving a note in case Ouhri woke up before he could get back, Florion went back to work. He tried very hard to simply do his job and not think, wiping his mind clean whenever it offered him new images. </p><p>Upon returning home he found it empty, the bed, unmade, the hearth, cold. But Aoife’s work shoes lay discarded in the hallway, along with the basket she used to carry food in, and there was a faint scent of hot food in the staircase. So she was here, and she’d brought supper from the communal kitchen. Florion went up to the roof and froze, body halfway out the stairwell. </p><p>They sat in the gazebo, and there was food between them alright, although most of it seemed untouched. Aoife was talking in a hushed tone, Ouhri listened, his head bowed, his palms nestling a mug of tea. </p><p>Florion crept up to them, unnoticed and, not wanting to interfere, stayed hidden for a few seconds. Then he went back down to clean out the flamestone ashes and change the sheets. And to ruminate on if he should do what he now desperately wanted to do. </p><p>~*~</p><p>There was a naked crying man in her bed. The man had an absolutely perfect looking ass. He also clearly had some ongoing issues. What with him crying, and all. </p><p>In the middle of a particularly racking sob, he turned to face her. It took Aoife a few moments to recognize him and to stop reaching for the poker she was planning to murder him with upon arrival. </p><p>“Uhm. Ouhrion? You’re back? Hello. Why are you...”</p><p>He rose, tear-stained, a strong smell of alcohol emanating from him. His face looked horribly puffy, skin patchy and dry. His hair looked even worse. As if someone nibbled it off in places. “Oh, it’s you,” he grunted. And dropped back down, turned his back on her, and continued sobbing into <em> her </em>pillow. </p><p>Flawless ass, really. </p><p>She squinted. So it wasn’t ‘my lady Aoife’ and ‘I beseech you’ anymore, huh. Aoife noticed that there was a bottle on the bedside table and <em> her </em> glass, the glass that Florion made for <em> her</em>, the one she drank water from at night and in the mornings was now filled with wine.</p><p>“What happened? Why are you crying?”</p><p>Instead of a worded response, he whimpered. </p><p>She knew all too well that there were merry drunks, angry drunks, pensive drunks and mournful drunks. Florion waxed philosophical whenever he drank. She got giggly and a bit adventurous. Maybe Ouhri was the latter type. The sad type. Aoife hoped he wasn't drinking <em> because </em>he’d gotten sad. </p><p>“Don’t you want to talk? I thought you’d want to talk to me. We agreed that we would.”</p><p>“Be best if you leave,” he muttered faintly. </p><p>He had the nerve to say it while getting snot over her pillow.</p><p>
  <em> Jackass?  </em>
</p><p>“I need to change the sheets. And you need to clean yourself up and drink some water.” </p><p>Three dozen beds in this house, at the very least, and he chooses to occupy this one while clearly being dead drunk, and then refuses to get out?! </p><p>“Leave!” he grunted. </p><p>What’s with the rudeness? Was this one of the reasons Florion cryptically called his best friend “big baby” and “a handful”? </p><p>“This is <em> my </em> bed! Now pull yourself together and get out of it, young man!”</p><p>Strictly speaking, he was at least six years her elder, but he didn’t look or behave like it at all. </p><p>“You’re not my mother!” Ouhrion whined.</p><p>Uh-oh. No, not at all. </p><p>“Thank heavens for that,” Aoife mumbled. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I brought some food. Would you like some?”</p><p>He didn't respond. Maybe it was indeed best to leave him alone for now, although his plea was quite unusual for an aldamaari. Aoife got back up. </p><p>“Please call for me if you need anything.”</p><p>He half-turned, pillow still under his cheek. “Did you just say, food? What kind of food?” Ouhrion asked. He then rolled, bent over the side of the bed and threw up. </p><p>Aoife sighed. “I’ll get a mop.”</p><p> </p><p>In the kitchen, during the week, Florion hung plugs of herbs to dry. Aoife didn’t know what some of them were, but he also had a row of jars with medicinal teas and remedies in them, adding new ones every day. After moving aside the jar with “Cramps” on it, she looked from the one labeled “Indigestion (al. only)” to the one that said “Hangover (univ.)” for a bit, and chose the latter. It smelled better, too. </p><p>“My behaviour was unacceptable. I must apologize for it. I beg you to forgive me.”</p><p>Nursing his second mug of tea, Ouhrion stared at the floor. Although the tears stopped, most likely from dehydration, sobering up did not make him less sad, so she guessed it was sorrow that made him drink, not sorrow caused by drinking. </p><p>Sobering up did make him more polite. Although this politeness sounded somewhat trained more than it did sincere. </p><p>“Apology accepted. Ouhrion, would you tell me what happened to you?”</p><p>She insisted they eat on the roof, thinking that fresh air would do him good. He ate very little, though, if at all, but he did reach for the tea kettle as soon as she took it off the coals, and poured more after he was done drinking the first cup in silence.  </p><p>He ignored her question. “So you are living here now, I gather.” </p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“How do you like this house? This is a very big house.”</p><p>Hold on, Aoife thought with unease, was he doing this thing where people say inconsequential things to avoid talking about something else? And was he doing it consciously? </p><p>He looked so aloof, and his eyes appeared as if they were made of glass. Unblinking. His lips shook. His fingers, as well. </p><p>She’d seen this look before. She’d seen all of this before. She’d <em> been </em> like this before. The man was in shock. In his case, clearly brought on by an emotional, not physical reason. Not something immediate. He appeared to be in the later stages of it, the ones where you slowly go numb and grow detached, and start to doubt reality, losing the ability to process it clearly. If so, did she have a right to pry? Aoife was on the fence about this. He looked like he needed someone to talk to. He did insist, after all, that she stayed, more than once since their altercation in the bedroom, and Aoife felt compassion for him, growing with every passing second. But he also clearly did not trust her one bit. </p><p>“It’s manageable. And I like the other current inhabitant of it more than the house itself.” She forced an equally polite smile. </p><p>Ouhrion snickered nervously. “Right.” And then looked at her sideways, very briefly. </p><p>In his eyes she was, probably, still an outsider who took advantage of his friend. On one side, she was and she did. On the other, Florion was a grown man perfectly capable of making his own decisions. </p><p>“A month ago you said that you would talk to me upon your return,” Aoife said, attempting to meet his eye again, unsuccessfully. His exact words were, ‘in any happenstance’.</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“If you still have any questions, I would answer them.”</p><p>He took a swig of tea, put the cup on the table, and she refilled it for him before he'd reach for the kettle himself. Ouhrion watched her do it, unmoving. </p><p>Would he ask about how she liked the garden, next? Or what were her impressions of the pool? It did not matter. She had to get him talking, yes, but she was never good at this. Aoife did not consider herself capable of meeting hostility with kindness. And how could she help someone when she had so much trouble helping her own self?  </p><p>Finally, Ouhrion muttered a despondent, “He says he’s staying here.”</p><p>Aoife nodded. “He is. Are you upset by this?”</p><p>No, this could not have been the reason for his grief. Him and Florion would still see each other just as often, except it would be in a different town now. </p><p>Ouhrion shook his head. “No. It’s fine. I expected this to happen.”</p><p>“You did? How so?”</p><p>This was news to her. How could he have expected something that Florion himself did not, at least according to the latter. </p><p>“The way he always talked about Rheske. It made me think. That someday… Anyway, it’s fine.”</p><p>Aoife probed, “What did he tell you about Rheske?”</p><p>A part of her expected him to shake his head and remain silent, but he did start speaking. His longest speech yet. “That it’s a lovely town with lovely people and he wished he had more time to get to know them. That the view was beautiful. That the smell was better. That he still remembered his childhood summers here. But he never did move. I think he needed a push.” After a pause, Ouhrion lifted his head and looked at her. “Were you the push?”</p><p>“Maybe I was. If so, not intentionally.”</p><p>“Not?”</p><p>“Not. I did not ask him to stay. But I’m happy that he did.” </p><p>He rubbed his eyes. It made them redder.  </p><p>“What happened, then?” Talk. Just talk. Doesn’t matter what about. “Between the two of you?”</p><p>What happens when two lonely people feel attracted to each other and have the means to act upon the feeling? </p><p>“Well. After you left I did as you asked. And I also did the thing. The one you mentioned. Going into that realm and talking to him.”</p><p>“Really?!” This last one seemed to shake him up, as much as anything probably could in his state. </p><p>“Yes. It was unclear why he wasn’t waking up. But I kept going there until he did, which, luckily, only took a few days.”</p><p>Ouhrion shifted in his seat slightly. </p><p>“So you… You pulled him out?”</p><p>Aoife did not know if it was her that did it or if it was Florion’s own power of will. It did not matter at the moment. “Maybe. I don’t really know.”</p><p>“And then what?”</p><p>Then, Aoife thought, I’ve spent the most miserable week of my recent life all alone, crying into the pillow because he did not remember me. She did not say it though. </p><p>“He approached me on Worship day, and we’ve started seeing each other in the waking world.”</p><p>She half-expected him to look at her with suspicion. To ask if maybe Florion felt indebted to her, and that’s why he did it. But Ouhrion paused, stared at his feet and said, “I see. Thank you. For doing this and… Everything.”  </p><p>And there it was once again. This odd trained politeness. Words that he seemed to be pushing out, and not simply speaking them.  </p><p>“Nothing to thank me for, Ouhrion. It’s me who needs to thank you, to be frank.” <em> I was so lost without him.  </em></p><p>He finally reached for bread, broke off a piece and chewed it. Absentmindedly, because his mind was distinctly busy doing something else. </p><p>She went on, “I suppose you are worried. And distrustful. I understand the feeling if it’s there, but I assure you...”</p><p>All of a sudden he interrupted her, “Why are you here?”</p><p>Aoife moved her head side to side, slightly dumbfounded. “Because… Florion asked me to move in.”</p><p>He spoke so rapidly that Aoife wondered if he was becoming feverish, “No. Here. In Rheske. Why? They say you are here to preach, yet no one ever saw you do it. They say you are here as a representative for humans, yet a woman I was with a couple months ago said you hate humans. They say you are here as a celibate “nun”, yet you are sleeping with my best friend. And wearing his clothes. Why. Are you. Here.” When he was done, his weather-beaten lips stretched into a thin downturned line.</p><p>What’s with the drama again? She clenched her teeth, suddenly feeling defensive. The option to act upon it and to answer with a jab was so very tempting for a little while. Aoife discarded it, with effort. He did not mean to be rude. He went through something, and it changed his behaviour momentarily. Nothing to it. </p><p>“I was sent here as a missionary, yes. But I was never planning on being one. Or being celibate. Or doing anything for humans. Rheske is my home. And these are my people. They’ve welcomed me. They saved me. I am never leaving here.” She gestured towards the edge of the roof. “I am never going back to the humans. In fact I’ll die a happy woman if I never, ever see one again.”</p><p>He put the mug on the table with a clang, produced a somewhat wilted lamia leaf from his pocket and chewed on it, staring at her. “Why?”</p><p>Did words even matter? Could words do anything?</p><p>Would saying “because they tortured me for years and the only reason they did not rape me every day as well was, it is considered bad luck by most of them to fuck a red-haired woman and, although they sheered me like an animal all the time, men could, fortunately, still see my eyebrows” be enough? Would he even believe her? </p><p>It was a cloudy, humid, unexpectedly warm day. After working in the Temple gardens for half of it and sweating buckets, Aoife happily changed into a plain sundress and then threw one of Florion’s shirts on. Mostly to feel his scent around her, because it always made her feel better. </p><p>Not really wanting to do it, thinking of it as an excessive, theatrical gesture, Aoife, nevertheless, stood up, took off the shirt, threw it on the bench, turned and pushed down the straps of her dress. Maybe this was also <em> acting on the defensive. </em>But she had no patience for this distrust anymore. And if drama was Ouhrion’s language, she should speak it too. </p><p>A month ago this handsome dashing man was so preoccupied with appearing cultured and polite and noble when he apologized vehemently on behalf of some random woman who called her a bad word, and now, would you look at this. And she herself quivered in fear and humiliation, on the verge of tears, when that little thing happened in the docks, and was so happy to receive his apology. She did not want to be scared and helpless anymore. But she also did not want any hostile back and forths.  </p><p>He did not say a thing, she no longer heard him panting in anger, the way he did just a few moments ago. Aoife was about to turn to face him again, when his hands grabbed her shoulders and his forehead leaned against her back. It was, in fact, scalding. And he was, in fact, feverish. </p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Ouhrion kept repeating, over and over. </p><p>She pulled away. “Does this answer your question?”</p><p>Maybe this was one too much. Now it seemed, frankly, as a bit of an overkill, and she was slightly angry at herself. </p><p>He nodded, not looking at her and choking on tears once more. </p><p>Well, damn. </p><p>When Ouhrion spoke again, his voice was tamed and quiet, barely more than a whisper. “Are you familiar with the human ship called the Indomitable?”</p><p>Oh dear, was she ever. Aoife sat back down, this time a little closer to him. He did not object. Moreover, his fingers moved, as if he was thinking of taking her hand. </p><p>“Yes. The ship that brought me here, this big, four masted carrack, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>She noticed that he was restlessly crossing and uncrossing his fingers now. Aoife hoped against hope that he hadn't met that stinking ship on his way here. </p><p>“I think it’s one of the very few that’s making regular routes and is allowed in your waters at all. Why are you asking?”</p><p>“How did the crew… How did they treat you on the way?” </p><p>The question sounded casual enough but she sensed a mountain of dread looming just behind the edge of it. Oh dear heavens. Please, no. </p><p>“Well. Unlike your people, they are strongly against women on their ships, under any circumstances, so it wasn’t pleasant. They kept me locked up in the hold. But they didn’t force themselves on me, quite predictably, so there’s that.”</p><p>He tossed his head up. “Huh?”</p><p>“Forget it. I suppose… The boatswain did not insult me at all and ignored me outright. Which is an achievement. I guess the cabin boy was okay. Just a child. Brought me some cheese and a copy of the Psalms once. It’s part of the humans’ holy book,” she explained. There were other small kindnesses as well, but most of them were now forgotten, smeared thinly under piles of hostility, nausea, fever and filth. </p><p>“I see,” Ouhri said, and she noticed new tears forming in the corners of his bloodshot eyes. </p><p>The look on his face made her reach for him almost without thinking. “What...”</p><p>“He’s dead. That boy. The boatswain, too. About half a dozen others.”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t pretend that she was sorry for them. Yes, in a way, she ended up here because of them, but, by this logic, her wannabe rapist, his father, and the Mother Superior also had a hand in this most fortunate event. There was a time not too long ago when she followed this logic. Lately though, she preferred to be thankful to the sea rather than them. Nevertheless, it didn’t feel right to express these feelings out loud, because Ouhri clearly did feel sorry for the crew of the Indomitable, judging by his tears. </p><p>“I would like to know what happened. If you could tell me,” she offered quietly, hoping that this time it would work. </p><p>And it did. </p><p>~*~</p><p>It took Florion less than half an hour to make up his mind. </p><p>He left the house without bothering the two people he loved most in the world. He walked up the Road of Steps, and past the Observation deck his songstress liked so much, and then turned to the opposite direction from the cavern where he slept throughout each winter. It wasn’t raining this time, and the sun was still bright in the sky and, once again, he thought that maybe he’d dreamt it all. </p><p>But he found it yet again, with no wandering or looking, and laid his hands upon the smooth, black stone no moss grew upon, and addressed the god who didn’t want to be considered a god.</p><p>“Kenn. Please. Are you here?”</p><p>“Yes. I am here,” came an immediate answer. </p><p>“Listen, I need your help.”</p><p>“I am listening.”</p><p>When he was fourteen, he found the stone. When he found it and got over the shock, it provided him with hours, days of entertainment. The hornets brought him fruit and trinkets and pieces of sea glass. They showed him hidden paths, and plants he’d only seen as scant illustrations in his textbooks. They led him to that book with pictures, because one of the two things almost always on his mind at the time was sex, and the other, the commitment to do as his father asked and not attempt to form relationships. Sometimes he thought they were reading his thoughts, because they appeared to know what he wanted before he asked for it. He watched, mouth and eyes wide open, as they assembled and then took apart elaborate sand sculptures in a matter of seconds. Soon he reluctantly let them sit on his wrists, and when he closed his eyes, they flew his mind up high. Which is how he found the Perch way before he was supposed to step onto it for the first time. Which is how he found the ruins of a lighthouse, and the rowan grove that grew over them. </p><p>And then it all stopped. Florion did not remember how, when, why. It stopped, and the memory became blurred, with some details of it leaving him immediately, completely, all at once, and others, losing bit after bit over time until, in his mind, it all seemed like nothing but a hazy dream. An idea too absurd to be believed. </p><p>It was real. </p><p>“The human ship. Called the Indomitable. It’s off the coast, to the south. Somewhere around Nerupin, probably. Is this too far for you to find it?”</p><p>“This is not too far for me to find it.”</p><p>Florion took a deep breath. He thought of dead dolphins on the deck of a human ship. He thought of dead people in the water. He thought of a cabin boy, drowning, reaching for Ouhri and getting shot through the eye. He thought of the boy’s father killing himself the next day over all this. He thought of all the whip marks, cuts and brands on Aoife’s back, and of how hollow and detached her voice became when she spoke of the horrible things that happened to her. </p><p>“I need you to do something to it. And to its entire crew.” </p><p>Of how, even now, ships were headed in that direction. Of how the Butterfly would inevitably sail back there in a matter of days. Of how this time, if not before, the humans surely noticed that this shiny, bulky, brand new vessel was filled to the brim with valuable cargo, and yet not equipped with heavy weapons. </p><p>
  <em> I think I’m starting to understand You better. As well as myself.  </em>
</p><p>“What do you need me to do to it. And to its entire crew.”</p><p>Florion told him. And stood up and back, knowing, remembering what was to come. </p><p>“When no ship of ours is anywhere near,” he added firmly. “No witnesses.”</p><p>“Acknowledged.” </p><p>There was a sound rising from the apertures. Subtle at first, but it built up and up, turning into a whirr, and then the first insect appeared and crawled out from the hole, and the next, and the next. In a minute there was a buzzing blanket of them, crawling all over the stone and beyond, growing, growing, growing. And then the sound ceased. They all took flight simultaneously. They were all headed south, flying in a perfect circular formation as fast and as silent as no known insect could fly. </p><p>“Would that be all.”</p><p>
  <em> Are you truly the Monster of their legends. Or am I one now.  </em>
</p><p>He wanted to ask if he could watch what was to follow. If he could also borrow the insects’ eyes as he did when he was a child. But his imagination was enough. </p><p>So he said, “Yes. That’s all. Goodbye, Kenn.”</p><p>“Goodbye.”</p><p>
  <em> And now you have to live with the consequences.  </em>
</p><p>But somehow he did not think he’d have trouble with the latter. The only thing that worried him was, would Aoife understand and forgive him when… <em> If </em> he told her. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Unequipped to help in any substantial way, unprepared for the barrage of grief that wasn’t her own, Aoife simply listened at first. The casual cruelty, the pleasure and amusement derived from the act as well as from witnessing other people’s altruism, none of it was news to her. It was just last night when she told Florion of her day to day life at the Convent. Recalling it, while he simply listened, helped. Trying to detach herself from it as she spoke helped as well. What followed, helped the most. </p><p>When it became clear that Ouhri wanted more than just a sympathetic ear, she told him all the things she’d wished someone would have told her when she needed to hear them. </p><p>Including one: a simple truth, really, that was a revelation to her when she’d first heard it. </p><p>“None of it is your fault.”</p><p>“But...”</p><p>“None of it, Ouhri. I know you don’t believe me now.” She struggled to believe it herself at times. But he did not need to hear of her doubt. “However, please, know this. From now on, it is your life’s primary objective: to accept that none of it is your fault. You had no say in what happened, no power over it, although you might think you did.”</p><p>He appeared to be reaching for her hand again but did not take it.</p><p>She said more things, things that seemed banal to her now, things that she herself had so much trouble believing. But he appeared to be taking them all in, listening intently. He was not crying anymore. </p><p>“I love the sea. I love everything about it. But I feel like they...” After saying all of this, unprompted, he trailed away. </p><p>Aoife hazarded a guess. “Tried to sully this love.”</p><p>“Something of the sort. How can I go back there and not think about <em> that </em> every minute of every day?”</p><p>“You can’t. And I cannot lie to you. At first, it <em> will </em> be every minute of every day. But then it will be once an hour. Several times a day. Once a day. Once a week. And so on. Until you will spend a whole week not thinking about it all and, when you do, it will no longer define you.”</p><p>He looked her in the eyes. Aoife did not know if he realized that it wasn’t only him she talked about just now. Likely he didn’t, too absorbed in his immense grief, which was entirely new to him. He’d never witnessed such horrors. Maybe he never even knew they existed. </p><p>“Don’t I owe them to remember?”</p><p>Aoife sighed. Maybe he’d read a lot of stories about heroes and adventurers. “No. You don’t. At least, not in a way that will be slowly destroying you in the process.”</p><p>He was silent for quite a while, contemplating. </p><p>“They did not even get a proper funeral.”</p><p>What this entailed for the aldamaari Aoife still did not know, having never participated in a local wake. For a moment, she wanted to say that that’s what human sailors do, anyway: throw dead bodies into the sea and consider it a burial. But then thought better of it; Somehow, she doubted it would help. </p><p>He needed to learn to move on and right now he seemed entirely incapable of it. And she felt incapable of helping. <em> Nothing but empty words.  </em></p><p>For a second his expression reminded her of that of a pouting toddler. Like on the day they met.</p><p><em> I’d be a dreadful mother, </em> Aoife thought in passing, distractedly. <em> I’m barely capable of consoling myself, much less another being.  </em></p><p>Whatever she thought of her ability to do it properly though, Ouhrion seemed to drink in each and every word she said. All she could hope for was that they were correct ones. </p><p>“I want to understand,” he said at some point. “What made them do it.”</p><p>“Ah.” This particular thing, she was able to explain relatively well. “They waited for you to approach because they suspected witnessing all of this would hurt you, and because they wanted you to hurt.”</p><p>“But why?”</p><p>“This, and everything that followed, was about control. Power. They feel powerful when they triumph, and it does not matter to them if they triumph over someone weak. They know you would not retaliate, so they are emboldened. Were you to have weapons… Were you capable of shooting them back… Their behaviour would have been different.”</p><p>“Right now they are deciding if the Butterfly is to be equipped with weapons.” </p><p>“What’s to decide.” </p><p>“Balance. Heavy weaponry will snip tonnes of our cargo capacity off.”</p><p>“I see…”</p><p>She did not like this indecisiveness, thinking that maybe it was time for the aldamaari to start hurting humans back. But Aoife brushed the thought off. Weapons or not, retaliation or not, she actually did not think them capable of murder. One can only hope that simply seeing the canons would drive humans away. </p><p>“As for why they wanted to hurt you…” she continued after a pause. “Because they are evil. It’s as simple as that. I’ve thought at length about the nature of evil. How to define it. And I have come to realise that it’s the lack of empathy that is the root of all evil.” </p><p>“Do you mean to say they lack empathy completely? How is this possible?”</p><p>Aoife shrugged. “Some of them, yes. Not all. But if one has none and, subsequently, no regard for others’ lives, one needn’t worry about their conscience. Or consequence, for the most part. It frees one in a certain way. A horrible way. And then the strongest survive and carry on. As for how it is possible, I do not know. They’re… We’re different species. Do most gebha possess any empathy? Although they could subsist on plants and slugs, they almost always choose meat and kill cattle mercilessly and sometimes, I hear, they hunt for fun, and do not even eat their prey.” </p><p>This, perhaps, was the wrong thing to say, as he shuddered at the words.</p><p>“But some gebha are meek. I saw a domesticated one brought along from the Lihula Valley. He let me pet him. They said he’s been found in the wild, most likely maimed by his own kind for being weak. He waved his paw in greeting. Children rode on his back. He seemed to be happy. He would have died if that family didn’t...” Aoife stopped herself. </p><p><em> Sweet mother of mercy, am I even able to stop comparing everyone and everything to myself for a minute. </em> </p><p>“Are you saying that humans are predatory animals?” </p><p>“Not quite, but… Sure. Why not. We are. At least humans appear to be functioning mostly by the same rules.”</p><p>His expression was unreadable. Aoife silently cursed her lack of eloquence. What actually did help her survive? What made her want to live on? Whenever she was tormented, whenever life seemed hopeless, when they found new ways to hurt her, because the old ones did not seem to work but were turned into a routine, just because? <em> What kept me going? </em> Surely not lengthy and vague conversations about good and evil, or empty words. Surely not vain hopes.  </p><p>“Ouhri… What else do you love?” she asked after a pause. </p><p>He lifted his face to look at her again. “Hm?”</p><p>“What else do you love beside the sea? Whom else? What other things do you like?”</p><p>“I can barely think about them now,” he admitted. </p><p>“Try? For only one minute. Think of all the little things that bring you joy, that make your own life worth living.”</p><p>He shook his head weakly, wincing. His fingers twitched again. She closed the distance and squeezed them in her hand. </p><p>“Do you love your mother?”</p><p>He scoffed. “Uhm, sure.” This barely had any effect. </p><p>“Do you love Florion?”</p><p><em> This </em> did. “Yes.”</p><p>“What do you love about him?”</p><p>He smirked very briefly. “Everything.”</p><p>“Could you be more specific?”</p><p>Ouhri shut his eyes for a few moments. </p><p>“When he does that thing. Where he’s overprotective and doesn’t know what to do with it and tries to rein it in. And yells, “Come on!” It’s hilarious.”</p><p><em> It’s full of kisses</em>, Aoife thought. “What else?”</p><p>“His smile. How kind and persevering he is. He always does a thing again and again until he learns to do it. I’m not like this, never been like this, I… How he never gives up. The way he thinks no one actually likes him that much when people are just too scared to approach him, too in awe, and drool at him from afar.”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t help but chuckle. She felt inadvertently called out. </p><p>“The way his eyebrow twitches in lieu of a question. Always only one. Not both. How does he do that?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” Aoife exclaimed. “Can <em> you </em> lift only one eyebrow?”</p><p>He shook his head, decisively this time, and this was the most <em> normal </em> she’d seen him today, “I can’t for the life of me.”</p><p>“Me neither! What else?”</p><p>“How he never holds grudges. I used to mock him mercilessly when we were little and he never held it against me. He never judged me. I was… I sometimes was behaving… Anyway, he was always there for me. Even though I know it’s hard. To be my friend.” </p><p>“Is…”</p><p>There was a string of loud ferocious stomps in the staircase behind them. They turned, both realising that it couldn’t have been Florion. And it wasn’t. </p><p>With her hair disheveled, her neck and forehead sweaty, and her eyes shooting lightnings, the dreamer from the docks emerged on the roof. </p><p><em> Not you. Why does it have to be you, </em>Aoife lamented, but then the woman ignored her completely, strode to Ouhrion and, grunting angrily, grabbed, twisted and pulled his ear. </p><p>“Ow ow ow, stop!”</p><p>She did stop and, after finally throwing quite an indifferent glance towards Aoife, dragged him a few feet away by the elbow. Maybe if he wasn’t so weak he would have resisted, but Ouhri simply let her pull him like a rag. She looked nothing like Aoife remembered her. All her stern composure was gone. She started speaking in a hushed tone, but appeared to be so angry and so out of breath that Aoife, who, in turn, decided to clear the table so as not to get in the way of this altercation, heard almost everything. </p><p>“The spike was five hours ago, where have you been?!”</p><p>“So, uhm, I gather, last time did not work?”</p><p>“No it didn’t, you dimwit. Don’t you dare evade the question! Where in the hell have you been?”</p><p>“Sleeping.”</p><p>“You’re killing me. You. Are. Killing. Me. I’ve been running around the whole town for hours looking for you!”</p><p>“I was here.”</p><p>She looked immensely agitated and nearly spit when she spoke, “No, you weren’t! This was the first place I checked!”</p><p>“I was… taking a bath, Lideo.”</p><p>“What, with her?”</p><p>“No, she’s with Flor. We were just talking. I’m sorry. I forgot.”</p><p>The woman growled like a wild animal. Ouhri recoiled a little. </p><p>“You know what?” she said. “I don’t care. I don’t care about either of this right now. Rosebush’s personal life? Don’t care. You, looking like a dying pufferfish? Don’t care. Let’s go.”</p><p>“Not sure if I am capable of doing the deed right now.”</p><p>“Say another word and I’ll shove that fucking syringe up your nostril. I don’t care! What you think!”</p><p>“Lideo, I’ve been drinking.”</p><p>She took a step back and wiped her face with the palm of her hand, eyes wide and furious. </p><p>“This… You… Dear God almighty. You… Okay. You’re still going with me.”</p><p>“Whatever for?”</p><p>“To explain yourself to Hel! You <em> promised! </em> You have no idea how much planning it took. She was swallowing some vile stuff just to time it! We could have stayed on Sarema for another week, but no-o-o, she said, <em> let’s go meet him and try again</em>! We were having an amazing time, you shitstain!”</p><p>“I’m sorry! But something happened and...”</p><p>“Don’t care!” she interrupted, really shouting this time and, bunching his shirt in her fist, started dragging him towards the staircase. He did not resist but looked at Aoife somewhat apologetically, not saying a word. “What the hell happened to your shoulders, girl?!” Aoife straightened up to make sure that the question was indeed addressed to her, but the woman already turned away with yet another, “Know what? Don’t care!”</p><p>Right after they'd disappeared in the stairwell though, Ouhri came back and planted a gentle kiss on Aoife’s cheek with a quiet, “Thank you”. She didn’t think she deserved either. </p><p>Then he was gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Extensive Mentions of Violence and Murder, Mentions of Suicide, Angst, Mental Breakdown, Confrontations, Hostility, Brief Mention of Vomiting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slight Objectification? maybe?<br/>Also, Good Guy Remotely Murders People In Very Dubious Defense.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. The Petals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Sober Sailor bff has seen some shit and doesn’t want to be sober anymore<br/>*Too bad, because he’d agreed to be a sperm donor to a tsundere+waifu and you do not. Ever. Anger tsunderes!<br/>*Immigrant girl and Sailor bff bond over how much they both love Green guy winkwink nudgenudge</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Word reached us that a distant relative of our interpreter Coris had died and there would be a funeral. Curious to witness such an event and see if it would (...) I went with my companions while, appropriately, wearing black, only to discover the house of the deceased filled with cheers, laughter, and all those in attendance wearing garments of bright colors. The body itself lay unceremoniously on a table, not dressed in brocades appropriate, but instead wrapped in simple bed linens. And while adults ate and drank and mingled around the house, children would approach the body with jars of paint and move the linens to expose skin and write words and symbols on it, none of which I recognized. Then, at noon, when the sun was high, the body was placed on a stretcher and carried through the city while passersby either (...). They then reached a fenced garden at a high point of the city, where there was a shallow pond in the middle, its measurements approximately four by four meters. Then it was blocked from view as we were keeping our distance, by all the broad backs of the green heathens as they seemed to lower the body into the pond. When they dispersed it was gone, but very many bubbles appeared on the surface and the water was not calm. (...)”   </em>
</p><p>Florion was running late. She hoped there was a reason for this. She hoped he hadn’t gone aboard the Butterfly to participate in the debate, although she still had no idea how much authority the dreamers wielded. If he was so overprotective of her, she couldn’t even start imagining how overprotective he felt over Ouhri.  </p><p>She put the jar with the hangover tea back on the shelf, noticing the one for cramps once again. Aoife was planning on trying out the latter when her moon blood came next week, but she hoped it wasn’t bitter. Also, the thought of going a few days without sex unexpectedly made her feel dejected. </p><p>Although most of her thoughts were occupied by what happened to Ouhri, she couldn’t help remembering last night in great detail. Before this, whenever she imagined telling him, she’d also imagined a heavy silence following it all along with, maybe, nervous pacing and unwanted words of righteous indignation. Instead they kissed like they were trying to devour each other. Instead she fell asleep feeling safe. Instead… </p><p>“I love you,” Florion said, embracing her from behind. He’d crept up on her yet again. “And I’m sorry.”</p><p>Was he apologizing for being late? </p><p>“It’s alright. I’ve been talking to him.”</p><p>Florion kissed her, and she noticed that his lips were salty. Quivering. Was it seawater, did he venture into the harbor after all? </p><p>“I love you,” she said, stroking his cheek. Cold. The whole of him was cold, and rigid, and dazed somehow. He kept on touching her, lightly, erratically, and seemed to not want to let go. </p><p>“You do?” he asked all of a sudden, pupils so narrowed that his eyes resembled that of a cat. </p><p>“Of course I do,” Aoife said. “Florion, wh...”</p><p>He interrupted her, stepping away. He barely ever did the former. “I assume he told you everything.” </p><p>“He did.” She nodded and all but dragged him to the nearest chair. “You need to eat.”</p><p>Florion jerked his head. “Thank you. But I’m not that hungry.” He did, however, drink the leftover tea from her mug, in one big gulp, and poured some water into it. “How is he?”</p><p>“Holding it together,” she said. “As much as one can in his state, I guess.” </p><p>“And… What about you?”</p><p>“What about me?”</p><p>“Are you...” he trailed away. This wasn’t like him. So detached, as if the process of talking caused him pain. “Are you alright?” Florion finished with visible effort. </p><p>“I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” In response to this, he squinted at her briefly. Aoife thought she knew what he was thinking. And also that it would be redundant to ask if he was alright, because he very clearly wasn’t. “Aren’t they forbidden to sail into that territory?” she blurted out instead. </p><p>“They are. They’re only allowed to approach the trading post in Nerupin through a sea lane coming from the south west,” Florion answered, face blank, words flowing almost freely now but devoid of emotion. “Narrow, but not narrow enough for anyone to claim that wind blew them off-course. It’s elasma-free waters. No fishing allowed. No hunting allowed.” </p><p>She always wondered what would happen if humans did not uphold their side of the deal; at the same time not wanting to ever actually find out. Aoife guessed the king could claim that the Indomitable was not affiliated with him any longer, and was now considered a pirate ship. He’d done this before and kept on filling his coffers nonetheless. One man’s pirate is another man’s privateer, after all. But then would he not think that it’d be destroyed by the aldamaari, along with them closing down the trading post? </p><p>Aoife has been feeling dread for years over the possibility of this escalating. Humans only understood the language of force. And, although, as far as she knew, the aldamaari had means to easily take down the flimsy buckets humans called ships, she doubted they would. They weren’t big on causing inconvenience, she thought yet again. Weapons were mostly there on their vessels to blast the biggest and most vicious sea predators out, and nothing else. <em> But aren’t these the most vicious?..  </em></p><p>“So then, if humans have broken this agreement, what measures will be taken against them?”</p><p>“I suspect a strongly worded letter. Who knows, maybe even two,” said Florion with noticeable vitriol. </p><p>“Wait, really?” He nodded. “And that’s it? But it’s hardly enough. It will only embolden them!”</p><p>“Oh, I agree,” Florion answered firmly and looked at her sideways again. “Is Ouhri still upstairs?”</p><p>“No, he...” Aoife did not understand what really happened on the roof, so she recanted the whole event nearly word for word. “And then she dragged him away. Did she mean you when she mentioned a rosebush?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It’s her pet name for me. She assumes it’s insulting, and we’ve made a hobby out of amiably insulting each other… Pay it no mind,” Florion finished and sighed. “I did not know. I assumed he was here only for me.”</p><p>“Did not know what?” </p><p>“Sit next to me?” he asked suddenly. Aoife did, and he took her hand and locked his fingers with hers. He still looked very aloof but, she supposed, with what happened to his best friend, this wasn’t unexpected. She undid the top three buttons on his shirt and gently poked her nose into his collarbone, inhaling deeply. He still smelled a little like burnt glass but the scent was vague, replaced by others that she liked more. </p><p>“Did not know what, Florion?”</p><p>“Lideo has a wife by the name of Heleine. So this was the aforementioned “Hel”. They both are quite disinterested in men. But they do want a child of their own. So over a year ago, when we met here, she asked me if I would consider helping them out. I said no.”</p><p>Aoife listened, nuzzling his chest, with eyes growing ever wider. </p><p>“Lideo wanted someone very specific. Not just a man who would be respectful enough to make his little contribution and then stay away, but someone who would actively <em> run </em> from any responsibility associated with having a child. After a short deliberation I said I knew just the man for the task. However when I sent word, he told them no, as well. I guess he changed his mind since then.”</p><p>“So… A month ago, after visiting you he went to their home and, uhm… Had… Copulated with one of them?” This wouldn’t have surprised her, knowing some of the ways of the aldamaari. But it still felt like a very awkward situation. What was the expression she’d heard more than once when she was a child? “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am”? </p><p>“I doubt it. Didn’t she mention a syringe?” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Then, I guess, our poor fellow was to invoke his imagination, fill up a jar with his blessed seed, and be let go with a thank you and, maybe, some food as a treat, to recover his strength.” She smiled against his skin; he finally lifted his hand to stroke her hair and kissed her crown. Aoife inhaled sharply. She wanted this and nothing else. Them sitting and talking about things most inconsequential, touching each other and, perhaps, anticipating the night. She woke up feeling so happy this morning, so relieved, as if an immense weight has been lifted off her shoulders. </p><p>And now… Now all she wanted was for things to just go back to<em> normal</em>, so desperately, but humans have done it once again, haven’t they? </p><p>“Not going to hold it against him, though. Maybe he wanted to tell me but… other things got in the way.”</p><p>“He told me you never hold things against him.”</p><p>“Well,” Florion said, lifting her head by the chin, and she thought she saw that he was trying very hard not to plunge back down into that other thing. “There was this one time when he planted me face first into a cake…” </p><p>She stroked his cheeks for a while and then reached up and kissed him, intending for it to be light and playful. </p><p>And in a moment or two he howled into the kiss. </p><p>“Aoife…” he whispered, moving away. His expression was so pained that she nearly howled too. </p><p>“Florion...” she whispered back, and it was a question. </p><p>His tone of voice was quite different when he next spoke. “Because of what happened to him. And to you. I… I did something in retaliation… Something horri...”</p><p>“Not another word,” she interrupted, that eerie foreboding, nearly forgotten, gripping her heart once again. “Not one.”</p><p>Whatever he did. Whatever it was that weighed on him now. She trusted him enough to know that she would accept it without question. As her nasty inner voice drew air into its nasty lungs, she smothered it.  </p><p>“You can’t “blow it”, Florion. You can’t.” </p><p>There was a pause and absolute, deafening silence. Then he seized her by the forearms and dragged her up onto the table, kicking a chair away ferociously, and it crashed into a wall, and the mug, swept off by his hand, fell on the floor and shattered. </p><p>“Do it to me,” she murmured into his ear and bit into the lobe, and dragged it with her teeth, making him snarl. </p><p>There was a desperate, animalistic edge to his movements, hunger and fury in his kisses, aggression in the way he rucked her dress up and ripped off her smallclothes. She bit her lip when he penetrated her, digging her nails into his elbows. It hurt because she wasn’t prepared, and he only used his own saliva to ease it in. She wanted it to hurt. And she wanted him to let go. </p><p>He pinned her shoulders down momentarily, hunching over her and, unexpectedly, stopped moving at all, as if doubting he should continue; His expression, that of despair and agony. Aoife moved her own hips forward, trying, wanting, yearning to impale herself. </p><p>“Please.” </p><p>He sank in a few inches slowly, meeting resistance every step of the way, and retreated back almost completely, upper body shuddering<em>. </em>Aoife whined a little. </p><p>“Harder...” A whisper at first but growing ever louder with each short and shallow stroke. She wanted him to stop holding back. “Harder. Harder, Florion, please!” she cried out. </p><p>“Aoife…” he growled, angling her hips to comply. “Aoife...” As he slammed into her with force. “Aoife!” Throwing caution to the wind, digging his nails into the gentle skin of her thighs, lifting her legs so high, her ankles were on his shoulders and then, as she moved feverishly to pull him even closer, around his waist. Letting go, face no longer contorted in anguish. </p><p>Deep, deep, deeper, <em> take me, take me</em>. </p><p>This was not his usual roughness. Not roughness for her sake, or the sake of bedroom games, or for a hurried release. This was something else. </p><p>“I don’t care,” Aoife keened, pulling him down by the shirt, holding on for dear life. “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care, I don’t care.” </p><p>With any semblance of pain pounded out of her, and pleasure spreading, she screamed hoarsely, voice breaking, mouth open wide, throat clenching, and he sped up. <em> Fuck consiousness out of me.  </em></p><p>“F-florion… I’m... Y-yours.”   </p><p>He made a sound like a wounded animal. “Say it again.”</p><p>“I’m yours, yours, yours.” Each word punctuated harshly by his hips, <em> slamming</em>. “Forever yours.” </p><p>“Mine.” Not a word, a roar from the back of his throat. “Mine.”</p><p>“So take me. Take all of me.”</p><p>
  <em> Violate me, devour me, inhale me.  </em>
</p><p>He kissed her, catching the edge of his name with his lips, moaning hers back into her mouth. Frantic, frenzied, mad, <em> let go</em>. </p><p>The sobs started racking him just as he spilled inside, and she held him close through it all. She cradled him as he wept, still inside her, his forehead leaning into the table, his nails scratching the wood and then digging into the flesh of his palm. </p><p>She should have let him speak. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Far, far away from them, the Indomitable was being disintegrated like a sandcastle, with everything and everyone on board.  </p><p>
  <em> Right about now.  </em>
</p><p>The very first humans to receive the honor of a proper aldamaari funeral. </p><p><em> Not a trace of guilt. </em> </p><p>This was something else entirely, gaining in strength and intensity, choking him. </p><p>
  <em> Scared of losing her.  </em>
</p><p><em> Lust </em> was not the word. He wanted her, oh how he wanted her, every minute of every day. In every possible way, everywhere, all of the time. But he wanted other things even more. To talk to her, to eat with her, to sleep next to her, to hear her play, to <em> be </em> with her. To be normal and happy with her. </p><p><em> Bridge </em> was not the word. They did not need to build bridges to connect. As if they, both of them, were old friends, continuing a conversation. They would not fight or bicker over little things. He wasn’t that kind of man. She wasn’t that kind of woman. They would talk it over, always before it escalated. He did not know if there was a limit to this though. He wanted so desperately to believe her when she implied there wasn’t. </p><p><em> Fragile </em> was not the word. Fragile was what he attributed to her when he first met her. Fragile was what he thought of their relationship initially, and so very briefly. Wrong yet again. He could no longer even think of letting go. And yet he still felt it, not from the inside of himself but the outside, as if a sledgehammer hung over them, and they were both one sheet of glass. </p><p><em> Home. </em>Home was the word. And you protect your home with everything you have at your disposal. </p><p>
  <em> Scared Ouhri will never recover.  </em>
</p><p>Florion’s best friend was an idiot. Wacky, dramatic, talkative, oversensitive, forgetful, can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants horny, irresponsible, adorable idiot. Boys loved him. Girls loved him. He did not love himself. </p><p>When both of them were children they fought. A lot. For the dumbest, tiniest of reasons. Mostly it was Ouhri finding an excuse to take offence, usually fishing it out of thin air and then pouting, and crying and, after the daisy on Florion’s wrist, doubting <em> He said you can’t have friends! — No he did not say that! </em> and shutting the door in his face, only for Florion to seek him out, take charge and reconcile, time and again, always ready for the effort it would take to get him back. To mend the fractures. To make him spring out of his shell and become whole again. <em> I’m here for you, don’t doubt it. No matter what you say or do, I will always be here for you. </em>This was his message, and he conveyed it over, and over, and over again, and it always worked. </p><p>They’ve stopped fighting, for the most part, when Ouhri took to the sea. You barely have time to exchange news if you see each other once a month, for a day or two at best, where would you find the time to fight? Florion held on to him and to this crooked fragmented friendship for dear life. Because it worked. A broken idiot and an involuntary loner, what a great tandem they made. </p><p>No, he did not think that Ouhri would start fights with him once more. He was just scared that the brokenness will spread, and the shell will seal the fragments inside forever. </p><p>Two years ago, while Florion slept through the winter, his father went to sleep one night as well, and did not wake up. Florion did, of course <em> — </em> weeks later, hundreds of miles away, screaming, thrashing. </p><p>Just the two of them, him and Ouhri, arranging a belated wake, long after everyone else who knew his father had drunk their fill and told their share of stories and gave his father’s body to Kenn, without waiting for Florion to say goodbye. Rules were rules, and they’d see each other again after all, wouldn’t they? He wasn’t so sure. </p><p>Just the two of them, drinking and staring, glass-eyed, into a wall, and then crying, and crying some more. </p><p>“There’s something wrong with me,” Ouhri had said. “I’m scared of death.”</p><p>“There’s a mountain of things wrong with you, bud. But not this. Definitely not this.” </p><p>
  <em> Scared this is not enough. More will come.  </em>
</p><p>And Kenn wanted them to come. Kenn expected them to come. Maybe joyfully anticipated. And would never allow him to stay put. To just be normal. To charge someone else with this responsibility. Florion knew this now, not as a hunch but as an indisputable fact although, for the life of him, he could not understand where he learned it or when he’d become so convinced. Just how many memories did his god steal from him?   </p><p>
  <em> Scared I myself will never stop feeling like this is my responsibility.  </em>
</p><p>His mind, full of idiotic contradictions. </p><p>When they were little, Ouhri once asked him, while pushing his greens around the plate absentmindedly, “If you were a god, what would you be the god of?”</p><p>Florion, already eating an oversized fried pastry for dessert, blurted out, smearing blueberry jam over his face, “Bread! I’d be the god of bread. And people would sacrifice, hmm... yeast! To me. And invoke my name in a prayer when their dough doesn’t rise properly!”</p><p>“That’s poppycock,” Ouhri answered, nudging his side. “You can’t be a god of bread. Who would want one? Me, I’d be the god of...”</p><p>“Ouhri, eat,” Florion interrupted. “You need to eat your vegetables.”</p><p>His father smiled and remarked from across the table, “You, Flor, would actually be a little god of overprotective parents. And prayers to you would be wall to wall bad puns and calls for putting on a hat.”</p><p>He thought, if you weren’t too cowardly to admit you’re a god, Kenn, what would you be the god of, really? Dreams? Gifts? Trickery? Wouldn’t you be a god of war? </p><p>
  <em> Scared I will never let go. Scared I will never be let go.  </em>
</p><p>“You should try and stay away,” his father said. “There’s enough pressure on you already, and the responsibility is great and very honourable. But you would do good to try and stay away.”</p><p>“What, like, I can’t have friends?”</p><p>“Of course you can have friends. Who would ever survive without friends? All I’m saying is, be careful when forming attachments. Whoever you get close to, you need to make sure they could survive without you. Because they will inevitably have to do it.”</p><p>So he tried doing just that. He succeeded for a while. He kept on trying very hard. Until it was no longer enough. </p><p>Now, as he yearned to be a regular man, he realised that he might never be allowed to be one. </p><p>It wasn’t guilt. It was fear. Fear made him choke on tears. </p><p>Understanding the cause barely made him feel any better. </p><p>No, it wasn’t guilt. Right? </p><p>~*~</p><p>They did not talk much that evening. Aoife played for him, and he sat in his armchair, barely blinking, hands locked between his knees, the book he’d been reading before, abandoned and forgotten. Talking felt redundant. Touching didn’t.  </p><p>In bed they huddled up close together under one blanket, as if trying to merge, until uneasy sleep took her. She woke though, to the deepest darkness of the night, alert at the creak of the door and then, at cautious footsteps on the parquet. There was a shuffling of a blanket and the mattress shifted. </p><p>“Ouhri, go sleep downstairs,” Florion mumbled into the pillow, evidently only half-awake. </p><p>All movement stopped. “I don’t want to be alone,” came a fractured whisper.</p><p>“Then stay,” Aoife whispered back, her heart nearly breaking at the sound. </p><p>When he settled himself next to her, at some distance, because this bed was as large as a mountain lake, she reached out, and he found her hand and pulled it in, and she sprawled the fingers on his chest, pressing them to where his heart beat faintly. “My lady Aoife. Thank you.”</p><p>She woke up again at dawn after being visited by the Indomitable in a string of nightmares, on her back and facing the tester, to a horrible, deafening rattle that felt like it was coming from everywhere. Only a monster would be able to make it. Aoife trembled and felt for hands, half afraid of what she might find, and whimpering in fear. “Please… Help...” Her thoughts were in disarray. Was this a beast that snuck into the house? Did humans come for her? Did humans come for all of them? “Help…” Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. The monster was close. In fact he might have been right under the bed. </p><p>Then all of a sudden Florion threw his arm around her and grunted quietly into her shoulder, very awake and very unafraid. </p><p>“This again. Kick him.”</p><p>Ouhri snored. He snored like a faulty engine. Like thunder. Like, well… a drunken sailor. But when her eyes adjusted and she saw his face in the narrow line of pale dawn light, he looked as innocent as a child. </p><p>“Go on, kick him, it usually helps.”</p><p>She couldn’t bring herself to do this, instead only touching Ouhri’s shin lightly with her toes. This did not help in the slightest. Thunder kept on booming. </p><p>“Let’s just go downstairs,” Aoife proposed in a whisper.  </p><p>They got up and snuck out into the room they'd prepared for Ouhri, into the bed he’d ignored. </p><p>They cuddled in that bed for a while, but couldn’t drift off. The mattress was too soft, the sheets smelled of starch and nothing else. Plus, with wakefulness came memories of yesterday, so now both of them had the same thing on their minds, robbing them of sleep. </p><p>
  <em> We can’t let them bring us down.  </em>
</p><p>“Can’t,” she mumbled. </p><p>He said, “Me either. Want some tea?”</p><p>“Tea would be lovely.”</p><p>In the kitchen, still in her night rail, Aoife sat down at the table, folded her hands on it, put her head over them and watched, eyes heavy, how he took the kettle off the stove, pinched herbs from jars and fumbled around for honey, all the while throwing glances at her from time to time. These weren’t expectant glances, she thought. He did not wait for her to start talking, just checked if she was still there. Still with him, in every sense. Talking was still redundant, although they’d have to circle back around to it sooner rather than later.  </p><p>“I love you,” she murmured. </p><p>He smiled in a barely noticeable way, with the corner of his mouth. “I love you.” </p><p>This was enough. She herself did not feel the need to talk about yesterday evening, although she could see it still weighed on him. But the weight was not as heavy. <em> What if </em> <b> <em>he</em> </b> <em> still wants to talk about it, though. </em></p><p>Aoife drank her tea, taking small careful sips, and it felt a little like slowly coming back to life. Apparently, it was the same for him because that’s when they felt well enough to talk.  </p><p>“We can’t let them do this,” Aoife said. </p><p>“We won’t.” Florion answered immediately and firmly, and kissed between her shoulder blades. “To us. To him. We won’t. We’ll get over this. Him… I’m not so sure.”</p><p>“He will,” Aoife assured him. “After talking to him, I think he will.”</p><p>Florion smiled again. “What did you tell him?”</p><p>“Lots of things. Mostly useless things. But I think he’s got something to hold on to until he’s better.” </p><p>“Please don’t say it was useless. I know it wasn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t have crawled into the bed on your side of it and then just thanked you without getting too handsy, and went to sleep.” </p><p>She bit her lip. “It… You were alright with it then?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I be? I actually thought you’d be against it.” </p><p>Aoife remembered how, three weeks ago, when she was grief-stricken, Mahri clung to her and assumed they would sleep in the same room, even if she had to be on the floor. </p><p>“When I feel bad, I’d rather be alone. But if someone isn’t like this… And he is not. Then I suppose this is normal.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“But what if he did get too handsy?”</p><p>“With me or with you?”</p><p>Aoife’s eyes went wide for a second. “Uhm. Either?”</p><p>“Then I guess we would have told him no, and he’d back off. Not a proper time for this sort of thing anyway. He’s weak and dehydrated.”</p><p><em> What, </em>Aoife thought in a mix of horror and awe, but decided to dismiss it for the sake of her own sanity, at least for now. </p><p>“Aoife, did he insult you? Because if he did, you really shouldn’t take it personally.”</p><p>“He tried. And I didn’t.” Oddly enough. Not too long ago, Ouhri’s words would have felt like a punch. Now, nothing more than a prickle of a sewing needle, if even that. “He was in shock. I think, for the last couple of days, each and every human was a menace to him. And a part of me actually hopes that he will remain as alert about this. It might be for the best.”</p><p>“It might be,” Florion agreed, somewhat reluctantly. </p><p>“But maybe less vocal. And less dramatic?”</p><p>“Hah!”</p><p>“What, is he like this normally, as well?”</p><p>“Normally? Yes. So dramatic. Also puerile. Sensitive. Capricious. Petulant at times. He can sometimes roll up into a shell for the tiniest reason. And this is normal too. For him, at least. As long as he doesn’t stay in it. I suppose if he were stronger he’d be a lot like you. But. He’s not. Not really.”</p><p>By the tone of his voice she almost immediately guessed something. “You feel it’s your duty to protect him, don’t you.”</p><p>Florion hung his head and sighed. “Yes. Whatever it takes.”</p><p>Maybe she was being selfish. Maybe he did need to say it to accept it, and to have her accept it without question, whatever it was, and not just imply that she did.</p><p>“Look… About yesterday...” she started cautiously. </p><p>Florion shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything.” </p><p>“But <em> you </em> have to. And maybe I should have let you. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You have nothing to be sorry for, Aoife. Nothing.” </p><p>She reached for him and threw her arms around his neck. “Neither do you. So if you have to, please say it. My assurances stand.”</p><p>He lowered his head onto her shoulder and said in a barely discernible whisper, “I killed them.”</p><p>Aoife pulled back and looked into his face. “What?”</p><p>“I killed them,” he repeated, louder this time. “The mutineers. The whole remaining crew of that ship. Gone.”</p><p>What was he saying? Even if the Indomitable followed the Butterfly, they would have fallen so far behind it’d be impossible for them to catch up. Or to be let in into the town’s wharf. And, judging by what Ouhri told her, the Indomitable didn’t follow. She stayed anchored and the crew started to aim at passing delphinids, disregarding witnesses.  </p><p>“Florion… How?”</p><p>He turned his head and stared into her eyes for a few moments. Clearly he expected her to react very differently. </p><p>“Kenn. He… He listens to me sometimes. I do not know why, I swear it. He has a weapon that he allowed me to use. Distances do not matter to him. So I sent this weapon after the crew. It’s a weapon that never misses its mark.”</p><p>She took a deep breath. Aoife felt something unexpected, and the feeling, if she had to put it into words, was three different kinds of relief. Long ago, among the whispers that crept through humans, she’d first heard that the aldamaari possessed magics and horrible weapons that won many wars for them, and that attacking them would be suicide. She believed it, at first. Until it became absolutely clear that the aldamaari did not deal in war. But maybe some of it was true, after all weapons can be used in defense.  </p><p>So many questions, but she had to pose them in order. </p><p>“A few questions. One. Did you actually see them die?”</p><p>“No. No one saw it. But I know they died. Trust me. They’re gone. The ship as well. It’s no more than a pile of splinters now, if even that,” he whispered quickly, brokenly, hoarsely. Not looking at her. Aoife reached to cup his cheek. To assure him. Whether it helped or not she did not know yet. </p><p>“So then, is Kenn a person?”</p><p>The human god was always depicted as an old man in white sitting on his golden throne among the clouds. And yet they still described him as infinite and incorporeal. This was stupid. The human god was stupid and a jerk. </p><p>“Kenn is… boundless, I think. He doesn’t have a body.”</p><p>So maybe he was a god, after all. </p><p>“Then how did you ask him?”</p><p>“I found a way. Up the mountain.”</p><p>She reached for his hand and locked their fingers. </p><p>“If more come… Would you be able to send this weapon after them again?”</p><p>He winced. “I’d rather not.” But this wasn’t a decisive no, and Aoife took note of it. <em> Relieved. </em> </p><p>“Do you feel guilt over it?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.” </p><p>He obviously did but really shouldn’t have, Aoife thought. “Strongly worded letters” were not a thing to do in this situation.  </p><p>“Alright. Last question. Do you think it makes me a bad person if I’m glad you did it?”</p><p>A part of her, a small and less vocal part, thought that this wasn’t a rightful thing what he did, no matter how he did it. No matter the circumstances, he let his fear guide him, to take complete control of him. And yet the other, the one she liked way more, felt very differently. Aoife could not, for the life of her, pretend that she cared about those people or even wished them well. In fact, not too deep down inside, she was glad they were dead. That the Indomitable was gone. </p><p>He stared into her eyes, his expression unreadable. Aoife shook her head. “Wait, wrong question. Here’s the right one. Are you accepting of the fact that I am glad you did this?”</p><p>“Yes,” he whispered, even more hoarsely than before. “I am. So then… You forgive me?”</p><p>Gone, gone, gone. <em> It’s gone. </em> Whenever it would reappear in her nightmares, she would wake up the next morning and be able to remember that this time it truly was just a bad dream. <em> Gone. I want the Convent gone, too.  </em></p><p><em> Am I evil? </em> It doesn’t matter. <em> Am I selfish? </em>I want to be. </p><p>“I think there’s nothing to forgive, Florion.”</p><p>“You do?”</p><p>She was wrong, so wrong about him initially. Yes, he did doubt, and not nearly as seldom as she’d thought. This made her love him even more.  </p><p>“Yes. I would have done the same for you, were we to exchange places. And I am sorry. Sorry for not letting you speak when you clearly wanted to.”</p><p>
  <em> Not this kind of selfish. Do not want this kind.  </em>
</p><p>There was a pause in which he shut his eyes, and exhaled, and she’d swear she saw the weight roll off his shoulders. </p><p>“So the Indomitable doesn’t exist anymore,” Aoife said. This wasn’t a question. </p><p>“No,” he croaked, and coughed to clear his throat. “It doesn’t.”</p><p>“Do you know what this means?”</p><p>He moved a lock of hair away from her face, so very gently. “What does this mean?”</p><p>“Indomitable was the ship that brought me here. It means that now it cannot take me back.”</p><p>After a long moment of silence Florion pulled her into an embrace, and for a second, judging by the groan he made, she thought he would cry, but he simply pressed her close for a while, and dragged her into his lap. </p><p>“If I told you I want you right now,” she said, eyes shut, nose poking his neck. “Would <em> that </em>make me a bad person?”</p><p>“Right now?” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again.  </p><p>The pipes growled. “Oh. He’s awake.” </p><p>They pulled away from each other. Florion got up, poured more water into the kettle and put another mug on the table. He then fumbled around a shelf, pulled the jar they kept caraway biscuits in and found it empty. </p><p>A minute later Ouhri materialised in the kitchen, wearing nothing but underpants and a gloomy expression on his face. Aoife averted her eyes for a moment but then remembered that she’d seen more than enough of his bare skin already, and that it didn’t matter. </p><p>He looked from one to the other, “Why did you leave? Did I snore again?”</p><p>“Yup,” Florion said, patting his shoulder. </p><p>“I’m sorry.” He turned to Aoife. “I don’t normally snore, not when I’m at sea. It’s a land thing.”</p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p>He looked better. In fact he looked almost normal. And someone gave him a proper haircut last night, after he’d left. </p><p>“Who cut your hair?” Florion asked, pouring tea into the third mug. </p><p>Ouhri sat down and reached for it. </p><p>“Heleine did. Look, about that, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”</p><p>Aoife excused herself and went to the washroom, partly out of necessity and partly because she thought they needed time alone together.   </p><p>~*~</p><p>He watched her leave, his heartbeat still in the process of slowing down back to normal, and then sat at the table once more. </p><p>“If it’s about you eating all the biscuits from the upper shelf last night, I know already. And if it’s about you working towards making a baby with a potential sea fixation, I also know already.”</p><p>He even managed a proper smile. </p><p>“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”</p><p>“Don’t be. I’m good.” And he was. Relief had washed over him like a wave, and he still felt soaked, albeit half knocked out. “Aoife told me how and why you were dragged away last night. So, did Lideo scream at you for a long time after?” </p><p>“Nah,” Ouhri took a drink of tea, but not before blowing on the mug carefully. “Hel has a talent for calming her down almost instantly.”</p><p>“That, she does.”</p><p>“By that point, Hel’d heard… Well, pretty much everything. Look, Flor, I was a mess...”</p><p>“Always are,” he interrupted, smirking. </p><p>“Ugh. I love you too. Either way. I take it back. About her,” he nodded in the direction of the doorway. “I take it all back. She… helped.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“And she’s tough, Flor. Tough as nails. I never would have thought.”</p><p>“Why, because she’s small?”</p><p>“Yes,” Ouhri admitted readily. </p><p>“Don't let it fool you. Women like this are usually the strongest ones, while the ones who look tough… Like, for example…” </p><p>“Lideo,” they both said in unison. </p><p>Florion chuckled. “All sharp edges and boiling spit but secretly she is so not like this.”</p><p>He remembered her crying on the floor of the sitting room a couple of winters ago, wondering if anyone else had seen her like this. If anyone, outside the dreamer circle, actually knew for certain how broken they all were.  </p><p>“Your hair looks much better.”</p><p>“I feel much better. I mean I still...” He trailed away. Florion grasped the back of his head and pulled him closer to kiss his cheek. </p><p>“I know. How long are you staying?”</p><p>“Most likely till tomorrow. Maybe a bit longer.”</p><p>Sometimes they barely had half a day together. Sometimes, one. Two, almost never. This was generous. Florion guessed their captain decided to linger so the crew might attempt to recover after what they’ve seen. Or maybe it was something else. </p><p>“They’re not changing the route or cancelling it, are they?”</p><p>“What? No. They’re thinking, cannons.”</p><p>“Cannons,” Florion repeated dully. </p><p>“Yes. Not the brass ones. The ones Lideo brought what, five years ago?” </p><p>“Ouhri, but those are...”</p><p>“I know,” he interrupted, nodding. “I opted out. Still don’t want to participate. To be completely honest with you, I’m still not sure how I will… I think about taking the route back, and I’m…” He lifted his palms to look at them. “I’m shaking, Flor. What if they’re...”</p><p>
  <em> Still there, and plotting something new, and the burden of retaliation would be placed on the Butterfly?  </em>
</p><p>The thought of his friend continuing to live in fear, with this fear impeding what he loved most, made Florion wince. He did not want to repeat <em> the thing </em> to Ouhri, because the latter would undoubtedly be horrified and… <em> The shell.  </em></p><p>“They’re not going to be there,” Florion said. He hated half-truths but it seemed as the only viable option yet again. “You will not meet them. There’s measures at work to make sure...”</p><p>“What? Why? Did you hear something?” Ouhri looked at him, eyes wide, and Florion nodded curtly, putting on a serious expression. No lies. Only half-truths. “The core of it is, humans broke the agreement. There was always a plan for this occurrence. They’ll be chased away immediately, if they haven’t been already. It’s out of your hands now. Trust me.”</p><p>Ouhri shook his head, oblivious as usual, but almost ready to believe, judging by how his pained expression flattened somewhat. </p><p>“I do trust you.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>They sat in silence for a while, foreheads leaning into each other’s, and Florion wondered if this was truly enough. If this <em> feeling better </em>would stick. </p><p>“Other than making babies do you have any particular plans here?”</p><p>“None at all.”</p><p>“Want to go on a walk? Rheske’s changed. Mostly for the better.”</p><p>Ouhri nodded weakly. “Anything you have in mind I’m fine with.” He moved back. “Is she coming with us?”</p><p>“Yes. Me and her, we’re linnaea now. Non-negotiable.”</p><p>Ouhri smiled faintly. “I have no idea what this means, Flor.”</p><p>“I’m saying we stay together if we can help it.”</p><p>“Good.” To this, Florion raised an eyebrow and, seeing it, Ouhri smiled. “Because I was about to ask that we take her along.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Guilt, Remorse, Doubt, Rough Sex, Angst and… Fluff? What? Okay.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. The Lighthouse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*He killed them! He killed them all! They're dead, every single one of them! And not just the men! But the men! And the men, too!<br/>*Oh look, they’re all sleeping in the same bed<br/>*And walking around half-naked<br/>*And touching each other all the time<br/>*Such good friends, just the best of friends, much platonic very buddies</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “Everywhere I go, I witness obscene behaviour and public debauchery. Their lewdness is unbounded, and not only with each other; Everyone I meet, they touch me, unprompted, reaching for my hands or making an insistent attempt to kiss my face. They open their arms expecting me, myself, to press my head against their bosoms. I shudder and recoil and they, the godless heathens, stare back at me in confusion, daring to look slighted.” </em> </p><p>“Definitely not a lighthouse,” Ouhrion said firmly, holding his hands up in front of his face and squinting at the view between them.</p><p>His sea-roll gait was less noticeable now: he was learning to walk properly on land again. </p><p>“How do you know?” Florion held her around the thighs, lifting her so she could reach a large colourful feather stuck in a branch that grew improbably high for this place. </p><p>“First, size is all wrong.” Ouhri strode from one bulky stone to the other and pointed to the ground on the left side. “Second, I think there was a rectangular structure right next to the round one.”</p><p>Aoife managed to grab the feather, and Florion slowly lowered her back down. She stuck it in her hair and walked towards the place Ouhri was pointing to. </p><p>“Could this be stones from up top that simply fell there?” she probed, studying the vague outline of a foundation that could have easily not been an outline at all. Very hard to distinguish artificial and weather-beaten from the natural part of the cliff.  </p><p>“No. And as I said, size is all wrong.” </p><p>Florion caught up with her and warned her in a whisper, “Don’t argue with him.” His smile reminded her of that of a tired parent. Out loud he asked, “What is it, then? A grain silo?”</p><p>“Who would want a grain silo here unless they were pickling the grain? Really, Flor. No, if I had to guess, it might have been some religious structure. A temple. I’d surely build one here if I was stuck on land. Bo-o-o-om, the waves below, and the storm’s salty caress all around the walls of it.” He faced the wind and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.  </p><p>Aoife tugged at Florion’s sleeve. He understood, nodded and kept silent as well.</p><p>Finally Ouhri turned to them. There was a shadow of a smile on his lips. “I like this place.”</p><p>“Makes two of us,” Aoife said and immediately hid her face in Florion’s shirt. </p><p>Ouhri poked her shoulder. “Did this brooding idiot bring you here before, then?”</p><p>Florion groaned quietly. </p><p>“Yes,” she admitted. “Two weeks ago.”</p><p>“But you said your relationship is two weeks old. O-oh let me guess. He dragged you here on your first outing.”</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>Florion groaned louder. </p><p>“What are you making these sounds for? Hey, Aoife, in our last year of school, he set up a picnic on the roof for a girl he fancied.”</p><p>“I’m going to punch you,” Florion muttered, although quite amiably. </p><p>“And then she told him no, and he got so angry that he ate everything alone, in under five minutes. I see he’s upped his game since then.”</p><p>Aoife felt an unpleasant prickle that made her pout, and Ouhri noticed. “What is it?” </p><p>“I guess I’m a little jealous...”</p><p>“Jealous?” Ouhri repeated with emphasis and squinted at her in an unusual way, and she wondered if she used the wrong word. If there even was an appropriate word in their language. “As in, you would like a picnic, too?”</p><p>Florion dragged her away by the hand. </p><p>“How come you’ve never brought me here before?” Ouhri yelled after him. </p><p>“I don’t know, how come you’re such a goon?”</p><p>Ouhri caught up with them. </p><p>“M-m, Aoife, remember how I told you he was selfless and never held grudges? I take it back. I take it all back.”</p><p>His tone was even closer to <em> normal </em>than before. One could even say it was almost gleeful. She hoped it’d stick. She hoped it wasn’t just the stimulant that Florion fed him with his breakfast at work here. </p><p>In the following hours it did not get worse, at least. By dinner time they’ve done so much walking that their feet hurt, and so much talking that their throats did, too. It would have been such a good day if not for… </p><p>All three of them diligently avoided any topic even remotely related to humans. Aoife had no trouble doing the latter, as it was in her habit already. She did learn multiple little things about Florion’s younger years that he seemed to consider stupid or embarrassing but she, in turn, found endearing. There was not a single additional reference to any other girls as, it seemed, there weren’t any girls to reference. </p><p>
  <em> Well he must have learned all those things somewhere, and it surely wasn’t just the book!  </em>
</p><p>Was Maeve right? Had he always been alone? Then how come he chose her and dived, head first, just like she did? No. No, it did not matter.  </p><p>From time to time Ouhri would see a wild animal, make muffled noises of excitement and try to chase it. One man looking to find some life in the world, after seeing so much death. </p><p>A mountain goat that Ouhri ran after had to climb a nearly vertical rock wall to escape his affections. </p><p>“<em>My best friend is a big baby</em>,” Aoife quoted, trying, unsuccessfully, to parody Florion’s low voice. </p><p>He chuckled and impulsively pressed her closer. “And it’s so great when this is how it manifests, and not in all the other ways…” </p><p>Ouhri, meanwhile, was staring up and loudly talking the goat into coming down, promising him a salt lick.</p><p>“Where would you get a salt lick?”</p><p>“The entirety of my coat is one,” he answered with a smirk. “Strike that, the entirety of me is one.”</p><p>And then he winked at… Florion? Her? Both of them? </p><p>The goat remained disinterested. </p><p>At dinner Ouhri successfully conquered several eggs, but not before making absolutely sure they were unfertilized. At least he was eating well. </p><p>She kept on wondering why she cared so much. And if she was projecting her own fears and experiences. And if that’s what it was like to feel protective of someone. </p><p>Afterwards, when he left them for a few minutes, she said timidly, looking for affirmation, “I hope he will be alright.”</p><p>Florion stroked her cheek, and she expected his gaze to be sad, but it wasn’t, not in the slightest. “Right now he’s overcompensating a little… A lot. But yes. I hope he will be.” </p><p>There were quite a lot of people on the square, and Worship day festivities were in full swing, but the two of them stood away from it all. </p><p>When Ouhri came back he immediately said, without any preamble, “Flor, do the thing.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes, do the thing.”</p><p>Whatever happened next seemed like an old, familiar and polished routine. </p><p>Florion studied the gathered crowds intently, barely blinking. </p><p>“Him, with the instrument,” he said in a while, nodding almost imperceptibly at a young musician who appeared to be busy polishing his panpipes but, Aoife thought, did not look like his heart was in it. “<em>Or</em> her.” This time, mere feet away from them, a girl from the Temple crowd, distractedly listening to the other two debating something in quite a lively way. Aoife did not remember her name but knew she was a choir singer with a memorable mezzo. “Either one.”</p><p>“Why not both?” Ouhri asked almost mournfully, looking from one to the other.   </p><p>“Because don’t be greedy. I’m only half sure you’re not still dehydrated.”</p><p>Ouhri sighed. “Fine!” And headed towards the girl, muttering something about… a God of… Dads? <em> What? </em></p><p>Florion stepped closer to Aoife, leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Now, observe.” He slid an arm around her shoulders and watched how Ouhri approached the girl, and bowed, and half-smiled… Such a drastic change. He appeared so serious now. Not playful at all, all quiet composure and dignified looks. A lot like he was when they first met. Aoife couldn’t hear the conversation, but thought he’d respectfully complimented the girl’s companions, instantly gaining their approval and then, so very casually, moved a lock of hair from her face, leaned closer and whispered in her ear. The girl smiled and nodded. They left together. It happened in less than a minute.  </p><p>Florion exhaled through his mouth, clearly relieved. “Thank the gods. If he’s feeling well enough to do this, then I’m not worried.”</p><p>“Smooth,” Aoife said, quite impressed. “How did you know?”</p><p>“Actually this time I didn’t. It’s all him. In Iquinous, when we were out together, I usually just noticed someone gawking at him and worked off that.”</p><p>“Florion.” </p><p>“Mm-what?” He purred and leaned down to nuzzle her hair. Because of all the walking, and talking, and not being alone, during these last few hours she did not dare to be as physically affectionate with him as usual. He noticed and mostly stayed back, but seemed to be at his limit now. And so was she. </p><p>“Are you sure it’s him they were gawking at?”</p><p>“Of course. Who else would th— Oh. No, it’s him. I assure you.”</p><p>“If you say so!”  </p><p>“Seriously. It’s him. Trust me.”</p><p>“Sure, I trust you,” Aoife was holding back a smile, and he noticed, and started tickling her, and didn’t stop until she squealed. “Let go, let go!” </p><p>“Yoooou were saying?”</p><p>Aoife adjusted her clothes.   </p><p>“I guess I can see the method to this either way. Both people you pointed out are very young, impressionable and, most likely, don’t have a spouse or a permanent partner. One looked distracted, the other bored. They would have been the most likely to accept. The fact that he’s good looking doesn’t hurt. Mahri was all over him when she first saw him.”</p><p>“I know,” replied Florion with a somewhat unamused look. “She asked me about him.”</p><p>“What did you tell her?”</p><p>“Enough to turn her away.”</p><p>Mahri was around here somewhere, with her boyfriend. So was Shyle, circling around and throwing glances, ever curious. Maeve wasn’t though. In fact, Maeve disappeared at the start of the week, and they said she went on a short trip related to her initiation. The latter, incidentally, was supposed to happen today, but Aoife skipped both the music lesson and the service so she had no idea if Maeve returned. </p><p>Aoife nodded firmly. “Good! She needs someone emotionally mature. The boy she’s with is very responsible. I approve of him.”  </p><p>“Oh, my love,” he said, chuckling lightly. “Are we perpetual parents to everyone we meet?”</p><p>“Ugh. It would appear so!” she answered with a sour face and pulled him down by the collar to kiss him.</p><p><em> Nobody cares, nobody cares, nobody cares, </em> she repeated in her thoughts to ground herself. </p><p>Florion leaned into the kiss, and her lips parted further… </p><p>“One for me?”</p><p>Aoife jerked back to find Ouhri returned and grinning at them. The girl was back in her spot, too. Not looking disappointed, but slightly confused. </p><p>“What, you’re done already?”</p><p>Ouhri winced. “Changed my mind. Asked her to show me where the privy was and then told her, that young man with panpipes looks awfully lonely.”</p><p>Indeed, the girl made her way to the musician and started chatting him up. </p><p>“Changed your mind, why the hell did you change your mind?”</p><p>“Are you feeling alright?” Aoife interjected. </p><p>“I am. Just… realised I wanted to spend more time with you two. Hope you’re okay with this.” </p><p>They exchanged a look and a smile. “Yeah, we’re fine with this.”</p><p>“Want to go sit on the roof?”</p><p>It was not meant to be though, as they were cornered by Lideo mere moments later. She did not say a thing, simply gazed menacingly at Ouhri, eyebrows furrowed, until he said, “Oh. Right.”</p><p>“You haven’t been drinking again, have you?” </p><p>“He hasn’t,” Florion assured her. Lideo ignored him. </p><p>“No, ma’am,” Ouhri said. </p><p>“Good. Come on,” and she attempted to drag him by the elbow again but this time he stopped her.   </p><p>“Hold on. Not going anywhere until you apologize.”</p><p>Lideo scoffed. “Ugh. I’m not apologizing to you. You messed up. Let’s go.”</p><p>“Not to me.” Ouhri shook his head. Aoife thought she already knew where this was going and took a step sideways to hide behind Florion. “To her.” And there it was. </p><p>“It’s really not necessary,” Aoife squeaked. “R-really, it’s fine.” </p><p>“What is this about, what happened?” Florion asked, immensely confused and instinctively shielding her with his arm. </p><p>Lideo ignored him again, eyed her up and down, expression unchanged. “Fine. Sorry,” she said after a long pause and then finally looked at Florion with something that resembled curiosity. </p><p>“There. This wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ouhri crooned to her with a pleasant smile. She rolled her eyes. </p><p>“Can we please go already?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He turned to give Florion a kiss and, to her surprise, Aoife got one, too. </p><p>“Be back as soon as possible,” Ouhri said, while being dragged away by the sleeve yet again. “Run the boiler!”</p><p>She turned to find Florion with one eyebrow raised questioningly at her. <em> Seriously, how does he do this?! </em> </p><p>“She called me an outlander once,” Aoife explained. “And I got sad, and he saw. But it’s no big deal.”</p><p>He pursed his lips for a moment. “With her? I agree. No big deal. But… if she calls you that again, just ignore it. She likes giving people nicknames.”</p><p><em> And I would</em>, Aoife thought. It wouldn’t hurt in the slightest now. </p><p>She barely had time to sink into the bath and let out a groan, while all of her muscles wept, when Ouhri barged in and started undressing on the go. </p><p>Florion continued aggressively washing his socks in the sink and barely looked at him. </p><p>She, however, instinctively covered herself and then balled up under the water. </p><p>“Are you alright?” Ouhri asked, carelessly discarding his pants and throwing them aside. </p><p>“Pick that up and fold it!” Florion screamed over the shoulder, and was ignored. </p><p>Her face must have been nothing but a mask of panic. </p><p>There weren’t many men frequenting the Temple bathhouse, just a few healers, nurses, librarians and such. Most nights they weren’t there at all, but she always kept a sheet or a bathrobe on while by the pool, and made sure to use the washing rooms only with girls there or no one at all. Almost every single time the girls assured her that it’s fine and no one cares, but she just couldn’t. <em> Why can’t I just be like they are, it’s so natural to them.  </em></p><p>While she was pondering on how to answer, he all but jumped into the bath, splashing water everywhere. Too late to politely ask him to leave, she supposed. Aoife wasn’t sure she wanted him to leave, though. He just came here to wash. To hell with humans and their prejudices. <em> But it’s so hard to stop being like this.  </em></p><p>Florion brought a pitcher of cold water and a glass, placed them next to Ouhri on the floor and went back to his socks. </p><p>“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” Ouhri asked, reaching for a bar of soap. </p><p>“I’m naked,” she said hoarsely, and her throat withheld half of the sounds. </p><p>He shrugged. “So am I.” </p><p>Florion came back once more, upended a bottle of liquid soap next to the running tap, and left again. The surface of the bath started to fill with large white bubbles, slowly shielding her body from view. </p><p>“Is your chest hurting?”</p><p>“Dumbass,” Florion said, squeezing water out a sock.</p><p>As thick foam spread over her Aoife felt bold enough to talk. “It’s just… I’m still not used to… You know...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Oh dear. Beside everything else, they were getting dangerously close to the forbidden topic. </p><p>“Where I come from your behaviour would be considered inappropriate.”</p><p>“In what way?” </p><p>She frantically looked for a method to explain it without explaining it. Was she allowed to go there? She thought she’d probe and back off at the first sign of trouble. </p><p>“Have you ever read the notes of John the Traveler?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, yes,” Ouhri said, lathering his chest.  </p><p>“Remember his outrage at how everyone undressed in front of each other?”</p><p>“Oh,” Ouhri said, and pursed his lips. “I do. Sorry. Should I leave?”</p><p>“No. I think, unlike him, I’ll get over it. Still, warn me next time, alright?”</p><p>He smiled at her, and it didn’t seem salacious or… Hold on, wasn’t it? No, she must have imagined his gaze wandering.  </p><p>“Those notes were drivel,” Ouhri stated, putting the bar of soap to the back of his neck. “Complete and utter poppycock. So, so many things made no sense to me.” </p><p>And wasn’t that a wondrous thing. </p><p>“Yes, I agree it was drivel for the most part.”</p><p>“At least Coris was in them, and not insulted even once,” Florion noted, hanging up laundry on the edge on the sink. “But he really doesn’t like to talk about it all.”</p><p>Aoife’s ears pricked up. Coris was the author of her initial language textbooks. “The interpreter? You know him?” </p><p>“He’s a dreamer now,” Florion said. “One of the oldest.”</p><p>“He’s also one of the best! Do you know that he actually br—”</p><p>“Ouhri!” Florion boomed, interrupting him. </p><p>“Right. I forgot. My apologies.”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t help but smile. Was he about to say “brought”? <em> Brought what, exactly? </em></p><p>“So the notes. And things,” Ouhri continued as if nothing had happened. “No washing hands before eating? Constant obsession over his god? No grooming allowed, especially if you’re a man? Kilts are a no-no? Cats are magical? And what are “slaves”, anyway?”</p><p>Florion coughed loudly, moving to the other sink, further away and with a mirror over it. </p><p>“You have to understand that he’s been raised in an entirely different environment,” Aoife said cautiously. “They say he changed his mind later. Or at least his companions did. So at least part of them… us… are able to accept your way in the end. It’s hard though, and some things, harder than others. It’s what you grow up with, and the way it’s been hammered into your head. But also...” She swallowed. Way too close for comfort. “Also it’s about nature. Our nature.”</p><p>“I see. He was obsessed with meat as well,” Ouhri said blankly. “I wonder if he stopped craving it afterwards.”</p><p><em> Dead people don’t eat, they get eaten</em>, Aoife thought.  </p><p>“I hope so. I did.”</p><p>He nodded approvingly and continued, “I heard he’s raising sheep now. Just for wool, hopefully.”</p><p>Aoife shifted uneasily. He obviously didn’t know the truth. Probably, not a single one of them did. “Where did you hear this?”</p><p>“Beruza, ages ago. He still lives there. I’ve seen him.”</p><p>She felt so uncomfortable in a whole new different way that she forgot her nakedness for a bit. “You’ve... seen him?”</p><p>“Yes. I do not know him personally, but I’ve seen him in the docks a couple of times. Him, his children. He’s very vocal about not being called John though. Hates it. Goes by Ionas now.”</p><p>If it was really John, which she still very much doubted, he appeared to have done what she did. Picked a new name to sound less human, but still something similar enough to remember where you came from.   </p><p>“Ionas, huh,” Aoife muttered. </p><p>“You sound surprised,” Ouhri replied with eyes shut, soaping his now very short hair. </p><p>She offered a compromise. “I just didn’t think he’d still be alive.”  </p><p>He abruptly turned his head and shouted, “Hey Flor!”</p><p>“Wfhaft?!” Florion screamed back from where he stood across the room, brushing his teeth vigorously over a frilly shell shaped sink. Foam splashed across the mirror. </p><p>“Could you please come over here? Your input is required.”</p><p>There was hasty spitting and water running, and some slapping of bare feet on the wet floor. “I’m listening.”</p><p>“That First Contact man we just talked about. Still alive, right?” </p><p>“As of last year, very much so, yes.”</p><p>Could they have confused him for one of his companions? </p><p>Florion yanked off his underwear, lowered himself into the bath and tangled his legs with hers. </p><p>For a while the two men recounted how John allegedly had a farm now, and that his family was huge and well known, and one of his sons sailed a regular route to Iquinous and… Aoife barely listened. If it wasn’t him that got executed, who was it? </p><p>And then she noticed that, for the first time today, she was thinking of something largely inconsequential. And smiled. </p><p>The “Account”, according to Ouhri, spread in translation, and was considered either a bizarre oddity, or comedy gold, or both. </p><p>“He was a different man then,” Florion said. “I think it’s impolite to laugh at those notes.”</p><p>
  <em> Yes, and those on the Indomitable weren’t supposed to get a chance to become different people, huh?  </em>
</p><p>Her smile was gone in an instant. Aoife shut her nasty inner voice at once, without any trouble this time. No, they were not. They’ve had plenty of chances, for years.  </p><p>“You know what would be impolite?” Ouhri said. “At least according to mum. Me pissing in the bath right now.”</p><p>Aoife came round. “Please don’t.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, he’s always polite.”</p><p>He left, and Florion instantly pulled her closer. </p><p>“Sorry about...” He waved his hand vaguely. “It’s not that he doesn’t have boundaries. It’s just that they are somewhere over the horizon.”</p><p>“So he is a normal, regular, typical aldamaari,” Aoife smiled, dragging her nails across his neck. </p><p>“Mmm, in this regard, yes.”</p><p>“But you’re not bothered by the fact that he saw me naked?” she asked, still somewhat fazed by this. </p><p>“I see no reason to be.”</p><p>“So why the soap then?”</p><p>“Because you were bothered by it.”</p><p>She supposed the aldamaari didn’t do jealousy and weren’t possessive, but there were signs, in Florion in particular, so Aoife remained uncertain. </p><p>“Florion, are you… Are you capable of feeling jealous in that sense?”</p><p>“It’s a basic emotion, and I’m prone to them. And I will feel it, probably. If someone tries to seduce you away from me for good. But never of him.”</p><p>“Because you love him?”</p><p>“I do love him. And trust him. But no. It’s because he is like the wind. He would never, ever commit to anyone. To me, to you. To no one. Ever.”</p><p>“No one is going to seduce me away from you. No one compares.”</p><p>He kissed her palm. </p><p>“Hungry for you,” he murmured against her skin. “So hungry for you, my love.”</p><p>...and her cheeks, and mouth, and throat; and those damnable bubbles were all but gone by then, and she bit her lip so as not to moan too loudly. </p><p>“Hungry for you,” she echoed.  </p><p>“Hungry for some caraway biscuits,” came a muffled voice from the doorway. </p><p>Florion dropped his head onto the edge of the bath, groaning. She sighed deeply. “At least he’s feeling better.”</p><p>She went to sleep early, as the two men still talked in the kitchen. Aoife would have liked to stay with them for longer but she felt very tired. Her body was tired of walking, and it was a pleasant kind of tired. Her head was tired of thinking and of worrying, and it was an excruciating kind of tired. </p><p>If it wasn’t for what happened to Ouhri, if it wasn’t for what Florion did and how it ate at him, if it wasn’t for her feeling a mixture of anxiety, foreboding, and overwhelming compassion for both of them, this would have been a good day. A regular day. A normal day. Just people spending time together, wandering aimlessly, talking of irrelevant things, not a care in the world. </p><p>These were the best kind. She hoped the three of them would have one, or more, in the future, unmarred by dread. </p><p>
  <em> I want to be selfish.  </em>
</p><p>In the morning Ouhri was neither somber nor puerile, neither numb nor overactive. The fractured night put a thin blanket over recent memories, taking the edge off the painful and lulling the happy. They drank some tea together and went to see him off.  </p><p>Standing at the docks, Aoife thought that there was something else they now had between the three of them besides the grief shared. She had a distinct feeling that neither of them was thinking about what happened at sea but, instead, reliving yesterday afternoon in their heads. And, maybe, hoping to repeat it. </p><p>She took the feather from her hair, stood on tiptoes and stuck it behind Ouhri’s ear. He bowed to her wordlessly and then gave her a kiss. </p><p>Florion asked, “Think you’ll be alright?”</p><p>“Yes,” Ouhri said, pressing the tips of his fingers to the feather. “I think I will be.”  </p><p>The two of them embraced and stood, locked together, for a long time, until there was a signal for unmooring from the longpier.  </p><p>She watched him go. Aoife's seen hundreds of ships depart this harbor, and it never meant anything to her. But now it felt as if a tiny piece of her was plucked out and carried away by the ebb. Such an odd feeling; not painful enough to be called sadness or loss, but about as cheerful as watching birds take wing in fall. She lifted her eyes to look at Florion; He stared intently back at her and, after a while, smiled mirthlessly and said, “You get used to it.” </p><p>~*~</p><p>It used to be much harder. It used to feel like a profound, permeating loss that settles in your chest, freezes your lungs, makes blood forsake your limbs. Like being abandoned. Like hopelessness. </p><p>It no longer felt this way.     </p><p>The ship was moving further away. Soon it would turn southward, and fade from view. Sun reflected off of thin, shiny cannons on the upper deck; people scurried between them. Thin ribbon of flamestone smoke rising from the engine exhaust, wheel rumbling, line formed, halyard pulled, mainsail set. Were he to stand here alone, Florion would have frantically scanned the deck for a familiar flick of that dark, salt-stained coat, the same way he did countless times before. </p><p>He no longer felt the need to. </p><p>“Why did you decide to do it?” Ouhri asked in the night, resolutely pushing the bottle away. </p><p>To stay, to commit, to plummet. </p><p>Florion wanted to tell him that she’s a dreamer, and that’s why he’d decided that he’s allowed this time. But it wasn’t true, he reached out before he knew what she was. </p><p>Florion wanted to say that it was probably because he couldn’t take it anymore: to be alone, a slave to his conscience and his obligations, still desperately yearning to be loved and to be whole, so he settled for the first woman that would have him. It wasn’t true either. He’d met others that would have, maybe, been fine with his occupation. And diligently avoided them. </p><p>He wanted to say that everything about her, her looks, the fragrance of her skin, her accent and her smile, turned him into a hungry beast craving, desperately, both to curl up by her feet and beg for caresses, and to ravage her, and that this irresistible instinct was to blame. But it wasn’t entirely true, as well.  </p><p>So in the end, no answer was good enough, beside this one: “It just… happened.”</p><p>Like all the best and worst things in life. </p><p>But he did talk of all those other guesses too, except for one: of how, this week, when he lay next to her in the early hours of the morning, counting tiny freckles on her cheek, he felt like it’d all been preordained. Independent of anyone’s decisions, power or control. An extremely stupid thought, really, because nothing like this is ever predetermined, there is always a chain of events leading up to something, and decisions involved. But a comforting thought, nonetheless. Something that soothed the mind, giving you permission to let go, for once, of any responsibility.  </p><p>“So it’s true. A human dreamer,” Ouhri repeated, dumbfounded, in a hushed tone, as if Aoife could have overheard him, although she was upstairs and fast asleep by that time. </p><p>“It would appear so. Please don’t blabber about it.”</p><p>He would blabber about it, Florion thought. The secrets of their people were the worst kept secrets in the world. </p><p>It did not matter anymore. </p><p>It has already started. Decisions made, chain unfurling. Everything has already started, and there was no stopping it now. </p><p>“I will absolutely blabber about it when I’m drunk,” Ouhri assured him. “And it’s your fault now.”</p><p>Something told him it’d be a while before his best friend was drunk again. </p><p>“You, a beast,” Ouhri said a while later, and smirked, his mind evidently not letting go of this one other image. “I guess I can see why.”  </p><p>Florion shook his head, smiling. He should have known. Ouhri’s travelled enough, heard enough. And he was good at being sly. “You are an insufferable pretender.” </p><p>“I am, and you still love me, and I love you, and you know what else?”</p><p>“What?” Florion said, throwing his hands up weakly. </p><p>“I think I love her a bit too now… So good thing I’m leaving tomorrow,” he added in a bout of his usual self-deprecation. </p><p>Turns out, so many things get easier when you are not alone. Caring for a garden, for instance. Or waking up. Or getting warm. Or saying goodbye to a friend, not knowing what awaits him or if you’ve done enough to keep him safe. Or breathing. Or simply being alive, now this gets a whole lot easier too. </p><p>Florion took Aoife by the hand and led her away. He sat her on the railing of the upper boardwalk, and they kissed until the bell rang.  </p><p>“I am going to love you to sleep tonight,” he promised, immediately feeling the whole of her shiver in his arms, and slightly shivering in response, involuntarily, anticipating, too.</p><p>She reminded him, just after he let go, and just before she turned to leave, “One day at a time, Florion.”</p><p>He’d try.  </p><p>Turns out, so many things get sharper when you are in love. The taste of food, the smell of seawater, the flow of time, the shifts in your moral choices and beliefs, and all the fears and hopes you’ve ever had.  </p><p>~*~</p><p>Maeve was still missing and, apparently, no one knew where she was. A first year novice said that Maeve would not come back at all as she’d finally found another occupation that suited her, in a different town down the coast; another argued that it was impossible because, just three nights ago, she saw Maeve head down into one of the caverns, accompanied by no fewer than four caretakers! However, when asked if she was close enough to identify Maeve without a shadow of a doubt, the girl had to admit that she, in fact, stood quite far away and it was dark already. Mahri did not participate in the discussion, which was very unlike her, and chewed on a piece of flatbread instead, one arm around Aoife’s shoulders. </p><p>Aoife turned to her when the girls left. “What do you think?”</p><p>“Oh she’ll be back,” Mahri said, and tore off a chunk of crust with her teeth. “They told me yesterday she would,” she added after chewing it up. “I wish she would have warned us though. It’s been a week. I kinda miss her… A lot.” </p><p>Later on, Aoife forced herself to think of something that wasn’t Florion’s grief, or Ouhri’s clumsy attempts to cope, of something that wasn’t about that ship-that-is-now-gone. </p><p>Or of how, over the course of last night, each one of them woke up screaming, while the other two had to reach out, and to hug, and to console, barely discerning whose hands were whose in the darkness. </p><p>No, of something completely unrelated and borne out of light curiosity. </p><p>John the Traveler was still alive, huh. And evidently, no longer an icky zealot. </p><p>Humans told her he was dead. But then again, as Florion would undoubtedly say — and she nearly heard it in her head in his deep, low voice — they also told her that she was worthless, and an unforgivable sinner, and undeserving of love, and it was all lies.</p><p>She cornered Lensi the Frog just as he was leaving the Temple grounds after what was meant to be a picnic with Mahri but, Aoife supposed, turned out to be something that involved less food. His ears were very dark in color, and his hair was disheveled. </p><p>“Say, Lensionas? How would I send something by post? I’ve never done it before.”</p><p>“Where to?” he inquired readily. </p><p>“Beruza.” </p><p>“Okay. Depends. What kind of something. How heavy? How fast d’you want it there? By sea’s faster but they won’t accept anything larger than a fat letter. By land’s slower, but you can send up to two pounds, easy, unless it’s perishables. No perishables.” </p><p>“It’s just a letter. Should I choose the sea?” </p><p>“Yeah. So, two postal ships. Next one should arrive in two days. You either drop the letter by our office, and we got all them addresses if you need, or you can give it right to them. Called the Dove.”</p><p>“What’s a dove?”</p><p>“The ship.”</p><p>“That’s not what I was… Alright, thank you.”</p><p>“S’no trouble.”</p><p>It’s not like she was seriously planning on writing a letter to John the Traveler. Maybe to make sure it’s really him… And a short one.</p><p>~*~</p><p>So beautiful; she always was to him, but something about her took his breath away the moment he entered the room and saw her, and she did not see him. Something about her made him forget everything he craved to forget.</p><p>A towel carelessly wrapped around her head, she lay on her belly, resting on her elbows, ankles crossed and swinging lightly, reading a book. It wasn’t <em> the </em> book, but she seemed completely absorbed in it. She was wearing one of his shirts, and the hem of it bundled up on her waist, exposing her lovely backside and so much more. </p><p>Florion swallowed. </p><p>Something was happening to him every time she wore one of his shirts. Something that resembled raging, burning possessiveness, absurdly mixed with tenderness and endearment. </p><p>Mouth watering, pants getting tight, he prowled towards her like a predator, soundlessly, wanting to pounce but holding back. Until she noticed him and smiled.  </p><p>This smile had the power to turn his entire world upside down, every single time. </p><p>She shut the book readily and beckoned for him to come closer or to climb on the bed next to her, or to embrace her. He didn’t. He wanted to enjoy the view for a while longer. And, maybe, approach her from a different angle. </p><p>“Comfortable?”</p><p>“Yes,” she said, cheeks changing color right in front of him. </p><p>“Good. I want you to stay like this for a while. Don't move. Don’t move...”</p><p>The whole of her, so enticing, and at first he only devoured with his eyes, watching the color of her skin slowly shift under his gaze, hearing her breathing quicken.  </p><p>Finally, he reached for the towel, tugged and the locks, still wet, spilled onto her shoulders like a wave of dark fire. He let his fingers play in them for a few moments, then moved to cup her cheek, and watched her eyes half-close, with heart doing somersaults in his chest, frantically pumping blood downward. </p><p>He stroked her jaw gently with his thumb, feeling, more than hearing her purr, then dragged it across her lips and pressed until they parted and let him in, to slide into the heat of her mouth. <em> O gods do I even deserve this. </em>He pumped it in and out a few times, a promise of things to come, before withdrawing and climbing on just behind her. “Don’t move,” Florion repeated when she attempted to turn and face him. “Not yet.”  </p><p>Throughout last week they rushed so many times, colliding, crashing into each other in every available corner of the house. Fast, feverish, starving, breathless and done in minutes. He’d lift and press her against walls, sprawl her atop desks. They didn’t rush at night but… He’d barely seen her naked in the daylight, and he wanted to. </p><p>I’m going to try not to rush today, he thought as he caressed the soft skin of her legs, in small circles, slowly, shins to knees to inner thighs.  </p><p>Then, panting already, Florion squeezed and released the soft, malleable flesh of her ass with both hands and then he did it again, and again, until her hips jerked up at every subsequent bout of pressure, with short gasps getting caught in her throat.  </p><p>He let go and dragged a thumb between her buttocks, down, and up, and down again, and lingered. As he pushed, applying just enough pressure for her to <em> feel </em> it, her breath caught. He felt her clench underneath his thumb...</p><p>“Do you like it when I play with your ass, Aoife?”</p><p>...and slowly relax. </p><p>“Y-yes.”</p><p>He’d probably hurt her bad if he tried going any further right now, but he knew he would find a way to try, someday soon.    </p><p>She turned her head and moaned nearly plaintively, and there was a thin thread of saliva running from her lips. He slid his finger between them again and let her suck it in this time, while still pressing on her asshole with the thumb of the other hand, insistently, in a steady rhythm, but not actually breaching; before withdrawing once more, his mind made. He turned her over and bent to kiss her, pulling her higher, dragging her hand to his crotch for her to feel what she was doing to him again. </p><p>“I want your mouth,” he said. </p><p>Wasting absolutely no time, Aoife tugged insistently at the lacing of his breeches, frowned a little when the knot did not unbind immediately, and Florion let out a sharp, throaty laugh, one of jubilation, amusement and pride, because it felt so good when she shared his hunger without holding back. <em> I want you so much, I’m losing patience, </em>her eyes and hands told him when her mouth dared not. </p><p>“Let me,” he muttered, although his fingers no longer obeyed him at that point, not entirely. He managed though, and heard her quietly gasp, as she always did, as if his cock was the most beautiful thing in the world. He twitched it in greeting, and the pure endearment at hearing her giggle in response almost overpowered his desire, but only for a moment.     </p><p>She licked her lips in unfeigned anticipation. For some inexplicable reason she really liked the way he tasted, and it did insane things to him every time he was reminded of it. </p><p>“Please, may I...” she whispered almost breathlessly. </p><p>He barely had enough presence of mind to simply nod, and the next second she was already dragging her open mouth along the length of him. Slowly. <em> Oh f-f-u-u-uck. </em>  </p><p>As her tongue washed over the head, with murmur of content rising up from her throat, and her eyes closed, Florion started to lose it again. Every single time it felt like <em> melting</em>, as if he was one happy candy left in the sun and welcoming its doom. And every single time she’d start slow and timid, and would probe and tease, and then it would all change in an instant, with her lips opening wide and welcoming him in, and tongue taking one lap after the other, around, and around, and around; fingers, eagerly covering what her mouth couldn’t fit; with him, hissing and panting, and grabbing and bunching her hair, and trying very hard to keep his eyes open to see it all because <em> oh gods </em>was it a sight worth seeing.  </p><p>Not being able to bob her head a lot in this position she, nonetheless, stubbornly tried, but he stilled her, and adjusted himself, and went on to unhurriedly fuck her mouth instead, willing, with effort, for his hips to decelerate, for his palm on the back of her head not to press too hard. Watching, <em> watching out</em>. It took every vestige of self control, just like it did last time but, without the blindfold over her eyes, it was harder to concentrate on the act alone, because those eyes, dark, heavy, looking up at him, were so distracting in so many amazing ways. It felt excruciatingly good, both to do this to her and to see her. He wanted so bad to plunge deeper into that enticing darkness. </p><p>“Relax your throat,” he ordered, and she did, or tried at least, and he got deeper, and lingered there before withdrawing almost completely, letting her take a breath, and thrusting again, and again, and again, into the welcoming heat. “Just like this, let me use your sweet mouth.” She moaned around his cock and the sound reverberated through the entirety of his body, making it shudder. “So good, so good to me, Aoife.” Mind going blank. Getting harder to keep himself in check. Must. Not. </p><p>She gagged, he’d nearly choked her. With effort, he pulled out and away. </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” she said breathlessly, wiping her lower lip. “I want you to.” And scooped the air with her tongue a little, wanting more. For a second he completely forgot how to breathe. </p><p>So difficult not to plunge back into her warm mouth, so difficult to stay out of reach of her teasing tongue.</p><p>“Then let me do this right.” He wasn’t, in actuality, certain that this was <em> right, </em>because most of what he did to her so far felt like wild experimentation. But he was confident enough to try absolutely anything that felt promising.  </p><p>So very difficult to linger, but Florion managed, somehow, to get rid of everything getting in the way; the wet towel, that heavy book, the upper metal-bound corner of which chafed his leg (“Manifesto of the Com—<em> who the hell cares right now </em> ”) and this half unbuttoned shirt that he wore and had to hold up (but not the one she did, <em> mm-no</em>, that would stay on).  </p><p>He stumbled off the bed and dragged her by the shoulders to the edge of it until her head hung down and back, unsupported. </p><p>He didn’t simply kneel, his knees gave out. This was much better in his head; the angle actually felt disorientating but only for a few moments. The same mouth that he loved to touch and to kiss and to fuck. Just upside down. Now if only he could stop feeling so dizzy for a second…  </p><p>“Open wide,” he said, holding himself at the base and, when she obeyed, unconsciously grunted like a bull and fed his cock in, inch by inch, as much as she could take and<em> gods so much deeper now. </em> She didn’t gag, it didn’t feel like she was trying not to. So he let go. Just a little. As long as he remembered not to push too hard and keep a steady rhythm, he could let his hands roam free, to trace the line of her throat, to open the hem of the shirt, to squeeze her breasts, to slide his fingers higher and pull her legs up and to angle her hips, to <em> see</em>. Now, at the sight before his eyes, his own mouth was watering, too. So wet, so open, just begging for his tongue. </p><p>In this position he’d have to bend into an arc for his mouth to properly reach it, at least not without letting his cock slip out of her mouth, or for him to lose the rhythm, or get disorientated completely and, realising this, Florion groaned mournfully; but his fingers could get there without any ludicrous acrobatics, so he curled and plunged two in, like dipping them into a jar of honey, and <em> oh </em> the whole of her shuddered under him, throat clenching deliciously, lips squeezing him tighter. <em> It’s not enough. </em></p><p>Pulling back and out again he let her breathe, and couldn’t help but let a little smile slip out when she protested him dragging her back onto the bed. </p><p>He didn’t really know what he was doing, not consciously, and it felt amazing. </p><p>So a bit more <em>turning </em>and a bit more <em>dragging </em>was what he tried, until he was on his back, head locked between her weakly shaking thighs, hands pressing gently on her flank. Almost instinctively he bent his knees, and Aoife breathed in and sank down, mouth open, fingers grabbing. His own mouth felt hungry, tongue all but tugging at the leash, willing to roam free, so he let it. </p><p>Just when he pounced and encircled the pink wet flesh with his lips, and invited himself in, he thought she’d gasp and jerk upwards as she so often did. Instead she sank even lower, taking him so deep that, even in this heady besotted state, he couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible but praised everything holy for the fact nonetheless. His free forefinger drew circles around her asshole again, making her shiver and yelp, and the harder he licked, and kissed, and pressed in, the harder she sucked him, the louder the sounds rising from her open throat, so he committed.  </p><p><em> Oh fuck </em> he was <em> so close, so close, so close. </em> But so was she. </p><p>Aoife beat him to it, screaming around his cock and then, when she let go and arched her back, over it <em> so loud I love it I love her, </em>hips in frenetic tremor under his grasp, and he made sure to gnaw out every ounce of that orgasm out of her, until she was no longer screaming but mewling and trying to break free. He let her go, and let her fall to her side, and sprang up, moving over her, and pushed on her shoulder, all but slamming her face down into the bed, and locking her between his knees. His own heart pounding, his sweat dripping down on her. </p><p>So tight, so wet, so good, <em> o gods how is it possible to feel so good</em>. </p><p>She screamed once again a fraction of a second after he pushed inside, carelessly, as deep as he could from this position, and Florion loved the sound so much that he decided to go back to his original plan, and slow down, and hold back, and to draw it out, instead of chasing his own release. </p><p>But it was hard, so hard, because he was so hungry for it, so impossibly sensitive after what Aoife did to him with her mouth. </p><p>“Such a good girl, taking me so deep...”</p><p>His own subsequent groans blocked out most of what she was muttering into the sheets, but he clenched his throat, very nearly suffocating on the effort it took not to come, and pulled her head back by the neck to hear. </p><p>“I love it I love it I love it,” she was saying, voice high, fervent, words spilling out in one unbroken string. “I love what you’re doing to me I love every second of it I love it when you fuck me I love it I love it… I love you, Florion, o Florion, I love you...”</p><p>
  <em> Delicious, delicious, delicious  </em>
</p><p>“Aoife...” he breathed out above her ear. “I love doing this to you, I love being inside you. I love you so much, my sweet, sweet girl, I love you.” And felt her come again, with sobs racking her entire body, and let himself go. </p><p>The hunger would come back in a couple of hours, if not sooner, and he already anticipated its return.    </p><p>~*~</p><p>She couldn’t help but ask, because it gnawed at her, and Aoife could no longer pretend that it didn’t. “Where did you learn all this?”</p><p>
  <em> It’s a basic emotion, after all.  </em>
</p><p>Florion chuckled lightly and rubbed his chin on her thigh. </p><p>“Surely not from the book!” she blurted out. </p><p>That trick he did, with squeezing her throat in just the right place to make her slightly dizzy and nearly melt into an orgasm, without feeling like she’s being suffocated, <em> that </em>wasn’t in the book… </p><p>“Not where you assume I did,” he whispered, still smiling somewhat mischievously. </p><p>“Are you saying you’ve never...” Aoife trailed away. </p><p>“Not saying it. There’ve been some… attempts.”</p><p>“Tell me?” she offered, fingers playing in his hair. Then Aoife sighed, seeing the way he looked at her. “I know, not the best time, not the best question. But you can’t blame me for being curious, can you?”</p><p>“I don’t. But it’s all rather dull. My first time was especially dull.”</p><p>“You should have chosen a better partner then. Personally, <em> my </em> first time was amazing,” Aoife said, and he bit her playfully. “Ow, stop! So what happened?”</p><p>“Eh.” Florion shrugged his shoulders weakly, which was the only way he could do it in this position. “I was around fourteen and she was, maybe, your current age? At the time I thought, wow, best thirty seconds of my life.”</p><p>Aoife giggled. </p><p>“I asked her if she would like to see me again, she said no.”</p><p>He then recalled his failed attempt with Lideo and how it quickly made her realise she was not into men at all, seconds after he took off his pants and got handsy. This one shocked Aoife a little, but he shrugged again and said, “We were teenagers. And I was a very different person then. But it helped us realise we were capable of being reluctant friends, in the end.” So she brushed it off.</p><p>“Please tell me more,” she turned a little to adjust her position and settle on her side, and he moved and laid his head on the curve of her hip, with fingers travelling slowly up and down her torso. </p><p>“Then there was this young man...”</p><p>“Young man!” she all but cried out. “Wait, so you like men?!”</p><p>Florion chuckled. “I like <em> you</em>, Aoife. Anyway, he was handsome and seemed nice, gentle, and sweet, but looks can be deceiving. Roughest goddamn sex I’ve ever had in my life. I winced for days while walking. I guess I should have known. He was a blacksmith.” </p><p>She hid her face in her palms, feeling her cheeks going scarlet. “Aaaaah!”</p><p>“I can stop,” he offered. “If I’m making you uncomfortable.”</p><p>“No, please continue!” Aoife squealed from under her fingers. </p><p>“Then it was several unwitting copies of my first time. I get with someone, I ask to see them again, they say no, thank you, we’re done. So I just… stopped asking. Stopped trying to do anything out of the ordinary, too.” </p><p>
  <em> Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.  </em>
</p><p>She didn’t feel jealous anymore. All she felt was compassion for him. That must have been tough, being rejected over and over again. Most aldamaari she knew didn’t think much of it, because if one rejects you, you simply move to the next, as Shyle used to say. But Florion felt different. She guessed he didn’t brush it off that easily. Aoife was confused, however, about their reasoning. </p><p>“Why did they all say no?”</p><p>“Because of my occupation.” </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Aoife, I...”</p><p>“Nope,” she pressed her fingers against his lips. “Know what you’re going to say and this once, I really don’t think you should say it. One day at a time, remember?”</p><p>“I love you,” he said. </p><p>“I love you, Florion.” She traced his forehead and temples with the tip of her finger, and he closed his eyes. “And thanks for telling me all this.” His eyes shot open. </p><p>“There’s one more thing. Person.”</p><p>By the way he said it, with a trace of a frown, Aoife somehow guessed immediately. </p><p>“Was it Ouhri?” </p><p>He didn’t seem surprised by her guess. “Yes. Also only once. I’m not saying it was a mistake but… Hold on, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”</p><p>Oddly enough she felt neither shock nor jealousy, nor anything of the sort. “How did it happen?” </p><p>“I approached a girl during Boaldaen and she asked if my friend would like to join us, because otherwise she wasn’t interested. I was a little desperate, so I said yes, sure. He didn’t mind. He was very drunk, and so was she. Thing is, he got her so worn out in the span of about twenty minutes that she just... Fell asleep. Blacked out. And, I suppose, he felt guilty about me barely getting any… So, er. It was weird.”</p><p>“Weird,” Aoife repeated. </p><p>“Very. Not in a physical sense, just… He doesn’t deal well with doing it with people he cares about. Breaks down, cries, yells, starts fights. We made up and didn’t talk about it after, and everything went back to normal. And I’m not really sure he remembers either way.” </p><p>“Why don’t you ask him?”</p><p>“I suppose I will. Aoife, this doesn’t change a thing between you and me.”</p><p>“No,” she smiled, surprising even her own self. “I know it doesn’t. But… why, do you think, he’s like this?”</p><p>“Because he doesn’t love himself very much. I suppose he thinks others will eventually hate him too, the way he hates himself. So he’s made a habit out of pushing people away on purpose. To test them. Insult them and see if they leave. That wasn’t the first time. When we were younger, he attempted it with me repeatedly.”</p><p>She’d briefly met a couple of people who did this, and on a much grander scale sometimes, but they were human. </p><p>“But you never left him.”</p><p>“No. I know his tricks, they don’t work on me.”</p><p>“I know them now as well. So that is one more friend that will not leave.”  </p><p>Florion pulled up on his elbow to kiss her. </p><p>“You never did answer my question, though,” Aoife said, touching the tip of his nose with hers. “About those things you do. Where did you learn them?”</p><p>He mused, biting his lip for a few seconds. “I think… I think, up there.” He nodded eastward. “In dreams.” </p><p>Aoife wanted to ask more questions but Florion, probably knowing that he wouldn’t be allowed to answer them, cut her off with another kiss.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Several Awkward Interactions, Infantile Adult Man, Parting, Goodbyes, Oral Sex, Deepthroating, 69 (Sex Position), Moderately Cringey Discussion of Past Sexual Experiences, Pansexual Character, Disaster Bisexual</p><p> </p><p>//Yes, that was a Lonely Island reference. Sorry, I couldn't resist :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. The Anniversary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Sailor bff is sober again and overcompensates<br/>*but we can see what you’re doing, sweetie<br/>*the goat can see it too tbh<br/>*Unclear if lighthouse was actually a lighthouse or a giant dildo<br/>*Nice.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “We must go back. I am aching to go back, I miss my homeland dearly and, with each passing day, feel ever more disgusted by the length of my stay among these godless creatures. Each of my attempts to communicate my intent on helping them achieve immortality and save their souls by accepting the One True Faith, has fallen on deaf ears. I suspect that my companions have become indoctrinated. One is a lazy, no good glutton, and the other seems to be smitten by everything around him, not just that woman, and spends more time with her and our interpreter Coris than with us. Each time I ask when we are going back, they say these accursed words they have learned from the locals, “ne rapidu”, and smile in the most condescending manner. I am neither a monk nor a scholar. I must go back, and point the way to those who are more eloquent than I am. </em> <b> <em>Deus Vult.</em></b><em>” </em></p><p>He’s… sixteen, he supposes. Or seventeen? It doesn’t matter anymore and it will never matter again in the future, and soon he will lose count for a while. <em> Let’s stop with the birthdays, dad.  </em></p><p>Dad is very happy for him. He wants to come with, but can’t, because there’s a lot of work to be done before winter. </p><p>Ouhri is a seaman now. He talks constantly, and excitedly, of things Florion doesn’t know anything about, like ways of calculating displacement-length ratio, and of various types of rigging. “Toddler fist”, “boomkin” and “cathead” sound exciting but, as it turns out, really aren’t. Nevertheless, Florion keeps on learning knots from him and asking questions when Ouhri isn’t busy climbing, or tugging, or cleaning the deck. He tries to help with the swabbing, but passengers, as he is once again reminded, are supposed to stay passengers, and in comfort. The trip is uneventful, even boring, but levels his dread somewhat. It returns in full once Florion steps onto land and says goodbye to Ouhri, the latter hopping on a departing postal ship in an hour. This new apprenticeship of his is messed up. But they still have enough time to sit in the wharf, throwing pebbles into water and <em> not </em>talking of what’s to come.    </p><p>The ship also brings the only other dreamer that hails from Iquinous, by the name of Endymion, but they’ve never talked before, and the man spends his days with his wife and son, so the first time they meet properly is also on the day Florion arrives on the doorstep of that giant house. </p><p>It’s in uproar. Half-naked children are running up and down the hallway with a ball. There’s crying, screaming, cheering and singing heard from upstairs, downstairs and the kitchens. It smells of burnt sugar, perfume, wilted flowers and despair. </p><p>For a while he doesn’t know what to do and where to go, so he stands in the hall, clutching his backpack and feeling hollow. Then a wiry aging man with a bottle in each of his bathrobe pockets finds him on accident and shows him to his room. Florion curls up on the bed. Until dinner he alternates between reading a botany book, staring into a wall and crying. </p><p>At some point he can swear he feels someone else hurting, somewhere far away. But the feeling is gone in an instant. His tether is like this, confusing, fragmented, ever dissolving, it comes and goes at will, he’s learned to live with it. Or, rather, without it. </p><p>Lideo finds him and drags him out, hissing out curses. This is her second year, so she knows everyone but doesn’t bother introducing him. This is done yet again by that aging man who greeted him, and he is called Coris and has an air about him… As if he’s everyone’s leader, but without putting any effort into it. They call him the Mechanist and other things, like “Coris, darling” and “old chap”. They call Endymion the Cook, but he doesn’t do any cooking, food is either brought from the communal kitchens or prepared by visiting families, and not the dreamers. This middle-aged woman Zakiyah, whom they call the Bookkeeper, sits next to him at the dining table too, but she barely talks and when she does, Florion winces, because nearly everything she says starts with “I, for once” and it gets very old very fast. He didn’t expect this nicknaming business to be widespread among them, he thought it was just Lideo’s thing. </p><p>She herself is referred to as Shipwright here.  </p><p>“Now what should we call <em> you</em>, dear boy?” inquires a well groomed old man they refer to as the Storyteller, lazily playing with the keys of a harpsichord, when the dreamers gather in the sitting room after supper. </p><p>“The same thing you called my predecessor, perhaps?” he offers. </p><p>“How about Flower,” says Ingegerd, a stunningly beautiful and lithe woman they call the Builder. </p><p>Coris ignores her and addresses him directly. “Very well. Botanist it is, then.” </p><p>“No way,” Lideo mutters close to his ear. “I’m not calling you that, Rosebush. E-ver.”</p><p>All of them appear to be more or less friendly, welcoming and accepting. However when they try to offer more company, drinks, or entertainment, Florion turns it all down. He can’t relax for a single second and feels like he shouldn’t even try. </p><p>It takes a while to learn all of the nicknames, a while longer to learn the dreamers’ real names. There’s nineteen of them. There have always been nineteen of them, although everyone knows that there are twenty stone baths. </p><p>Their families, Florion doesn’t bother socializing with. There’s not enough time. </p><p>The first night is very hard. He barely sleeps, even thoughts of the sea do not calm him any. </p><p>In the morning he is swaddled in several additional layers of clothing, taken to the Perch and left up there for what must be a whole hour. He’s out of breath from the ascent, it’s cold, and the wind is brutal. Florion doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to gain from this so-called shift in perspective. He already feels quite alone, lost and scared and, also, he’s absurdly certain he’s been here before many times so the view bores him very fast. For a while he watches solitary dots of ships move like insects in the distance, sets out to count the exact number of houses, gives up, jumps up and down for warmth, yells out some poetry, pisses downwind, and then the designated time is mercifully over, and he is taken back. Lunch is only thin vegetable broth. There is no supper served for the dreamers, their families leave to eat downtown. </p><p>Florion is very hungry. He knows he will not eat until spring, not properly. But Lideo already warned him that it’s either fasting for at least a day, or they’ll have to give you an enema and pump out the contents of your stomach through a tube. “And this tube, Rosebush…” she says, shuddering visibly. “It goes in through your fucking nostril.” He’d maybe let a healer do that if he had to, because healers are nice and considerate and want to help. But not caretakers. He’d rather stay famished than let caretakers shove things into him. </p><p>In the evening before the plunge each one of the dreamers is summoned. They await their turn in the sitting room and, indeed, not a single one of them is drinking anything but water. The time for drinking and carousing is over now. They leave one by one and do not return.  </p><p>When his name is called, Florion jumps up and, on weak and wobbly legs, follows the man in grey robes up the stairs and down the corridor into a spacious room made to seem even emptier by the fact that there is nothing in it but a desk, three chairs and one other person in grey. </p><p>He is invited to sit. He does and freezes, awaiting meticulous instructions, admonitions and, maybe, some sort of ritual. None of this follows. </p><p>“It’s your first year,” says one of the caretakers, shuffling through some papers and barely looking at him, “so just learn the ropes and bring something simple.” </p><p>“Preferably something tasty,” the second adds. </p><p>Florion stares at him for a few seconds, then finally asks, “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Like a fruit, or...”</p><p>“No, a fruit is fine,” the first caretaker interrupts. “Or a berry?”</p><p>“Berries are also fine.”</p><p>“Or maybe this time just trust Kenn and take whatever he gives you.”</p><p>“Alright, that’s all, you can go now.” Upon saying this, the second caretaker turns to the first. “What, like vegetables aren’t tasty? There’s also edible flowers.”</p><p>This sole “excuse me” remains the only phrase he gets to say to them. He is not offered a chance to ask questions. He is not offered anything. </p><p>Coris, who was called first, stands in the corridor, seemingly awaiting him. </p><p>“Hey, kid. Scared?” Not “Botanist”, just “kid”, because that’s what he probably looks like right now. A terrified child. Florion hates it. Florion hates all of this. He already hates that he’s been chosen. His initial motivation is all but forgotten now. </p><p>“Yes,” he admits. A hand descends on his shoulder, and Florion feels the tether warble like a string. He instantly feels better, if only a tad. </p><p>“It’ll be a breeze. I promise. In fact, I guarantee you will enjoy it.”</p><p>Florion shakes his head. “Really? But their instructions, they weren’t really clear.”</p><p>“What, them? Forget them. These idiots barely ever have any clear instructions. You don’t need any. You will get everything done yourself.”</p><p>“But what if… What if something goes wrong?”</p><p>“No. It’s always like clockwork, in, out, done. But if you’re worried, you can always rely on me. I’ll be there for you if you need me.”</p><p>“Really?” he repeats. </p><p>“Of course,” Coris says. “You’ll never be alone down there.”</p><p>The stress and hunger are so exhausting that he manages to sleep through the night. The bed is soft and, with curtains pulled around it, feels like a warm cradle. But they’re all woken up before dawn, to cold and darkness and an icy drizzle outside. No nourishment but water is allowed. Florion hears crying behind the wall and crying in the corridor, but stubbornly shuts it off as he brushes his teeth and dresses. The reflection in the mirror is that of a frightened, skinny boy who looks much younger than he allegedly is. Cheeks sunken, eyes bloodshot, short hair spiky and disheveled. </p><p>“Will never be alone down there,” Florion says to the reflection and nods. It doesn’t sound or look very reassuring. Coris did a much better job with these words. </p><p>What’s to be afraid of anyway, he thinks as the procession slowly ascends the short trek to the cavern up the Road of Steps. He saw it with his own eyes, there’s an amazing boundless world in there, where he could do anything. Surely there would be no problem for him to find a fruit and pluck it; hell, it won’t be a problem to materialize a whole mountain of fruits if he wanted to. </p><p>Lideo makes a face at him, Coris pats his shoulder, and the caretakers lead him into the room. It’s small and dark, and the stone bath… </p><p>“It has no bottom,” Florion says to the caretakers, staring down. They do not answer. They undress him and tie a clean white cloth around his loins. Without warning one of them, the biggest and burliest one, lifts him up and lowers him into the bath.  </p><p>“There is always a bottom,” he says and lets go. </p><p>Florion doesn’t sink any lower than a couple of inches. His body feels like a floating bobber. In fact, he is no longer sure this is water. It’s lukewarm, feels very thick, smells peculiar. Like blood or metal. And a little bit like molten glass. Something brushes his lower back, and he remembers the snake-worm. </p><p>“Nighty night,” they say and walk away, leaving him there all alone. </p><p>
  <em> I am Florion, son of Darius, the best glassmith on the coast and the best father in the world who taught me well, and I will not be frightened by some... </em>
</p><p>The worm coils around his neck and pricks his carotid, but Florion barely feels it. He falls asleep as fast and as easily as a light being blown out. </p><p>
  <em> Forgetting upon waking is natural. You’re not supposed to remember things that aren’t yours.  </em>
</p><p>Florion brings back a handful of sprouted brown seeds. And a list of instructions on how to care for them properly, or so he’s told, but these have already disappeared from his skin. The seeds will grow into huge fruits with a hard, green, striped shell concealing juicy sugary flesh. Like melons, but watery and pink inside. Also technically they’re berries, but Florion isn’t sure why he’s so convinced of the latter. Three months have gone by, but he doesn’t remember a thing and doesn’t care. He just wants to go home so, after being discharged from the Temple clinic, he takes the very first ship headed to Iquinous that has a spot for him... </p><p> </p><p>It was this precise room they escorted him into every single year, and their instructions were nearly always vague and nonsensical. Except last fall, when he was summoned into the office of the man who stubbornly called himself the Head Librarian, despite the fact that he knew as much about record keeping and book mending as Florion did, if not less. But that would not happen again. </p><p>Years ago Florion started calling it the Useless Room. This spring, he’d decided to give it a proper use and meaning. </p><p>~*~</p><p>He had a whole laboratory now. There was a metal stove on four legs, with a tiny door on the side. Flasks, retorts and beakers in a glazed cabinet and on shelves he’d nailed to the wall opposite. A bubbling distiller on one desk, burners and scales and more flasks and a stack of notebooks on the other. </p><p>It all smelled quite unpleasant. Of burning roots, of alcohol, of fish oil and plant extracts.  </p><p>Aoife loved it. She dragged a footrest into the room, put it in a corner, and sat on it as on a stool, with a book of songs, but put the latter away almost immediately. </p><p>“I love that you’re here,” he said. </p><p>His hands were in constant movement, pinching herbs, measuring, mixing. They worked independent of each other but, once again, in perfect unison. </p><p>He’d already told her how he learned all this, through years and years of studying and practice. Granted, the apothecary that taught him wasn’t nearly as patient as his own father was but, compared to her teachers, that old botanist sounded like a saint. She suspected that, in this case, the <em> dreams </em>had also played a part, but he still wasn’t allowed to tell her about them. </p><p>Most aldamaari had two professions taught to them, Aoife knew that, but rarely saw anyone who didn’t stick to only one, or seemed so good at both. </p><p>And she was staring. <em> The first time I saw you, I mistook you for a god.  </em></p><p>Florion smiled with the corner of his lips. Although he appeared to not be looking at her directly all this time, Aoife knew better. </p><p>“I love watching you work,” she blurted out. <em> I love your hands. I love to see your shoulders tensing. I love that little frown of concentration on your face.  </em></p><p>Florion added a few drops of something into a small jar of oily liquid on the burner, and the mixture changed color to lilac. </p><p>“What else do you love, Aoife?” he asked in a light and somewhat careless tone, but, once again, she knew better. </p><p>A back and forth that started recently, after she’d made a certain confession in a certain moment. She suspected what he was doing, which boundaries he was pushing and why, and she was grateful for it. Besides, more than once now it ended with them frantically and passionately making love against the nearest available surface.  </p><p>He added another few drops of a different distilled liquid, stirred, and the jar’s contents spread an aroma that reminded her of freshly ground cinnamon. It all looked alchemical. Magical. It wasn’t. </p><p>“Sleeping next to you.” She loved reaching for him in the darkness and finding him there, always so warm. She loved listening for his quiet breathing when her demons were also near. She loved waking up and seeing him there. Even when sometimes upon waking, she would discover that her fingers were clutching his manhood tightly, as if it was a restless child’s favourite toy, with Florion wide awake as well, and his expression, that of amusement and mock accusation.</p><p>Florion took the jar off the burner and put it away to cool. He then yanked off his gloves, dropped them on the nearest desk, turned and looked at her directly. Aoife felt like there was a different burner right under her now, because this gaze had a power to melt her. </p><p>He took a step, and another, and she didn’t quite notice how exactly he maneuvered through the room, because her eyes were fixed on his, and Aoife came round when he was kneeling beside her and his hand reached for her cheek. </p><p><em> I also love to be kissed by you. </em> She loved the quick and mostly dry pecks they often exchanged in public. She loved the slow, open and long kisses — the ones for when they were alone. She loved the frantic, unending, deep and wet kisses… For when he was inside of her.  </p><p>Leaning forward, he brought his face so close to hers, so very close that she could feel his breath penetrating her mouth. His lips were dark, and full, and pliant, and she loved this, too. The anticipation was as much part of it as the kiss itself was. </p><p><em> How did it happen, </em>Aoife thought, for what must have been a millionth time. So often, both during daytime and at night, she would find herself having trouble believing that this was now her life and not an elaborate hallucination, or a dream her mind cooked up to save her from grief. And if it was true, did she truly deserve this? </p><p>Florion was a sleeping god in her eyes when she first saw him. For weeks she was in awe of him, wanting to pray to him, to worship him, to sing hymns for him. He was but a man, she knew it now, a man who experienced doubt, who needed validation and acceptance, who gave into his emotions and fears, just as she did. She preferred the man to the god. But still thought him the most amazing creature to ever grace the land with his presence. <em> It’s still so very hard to believe that you are mine, my beautiful flower.  </em></p><p>But it was getting a little bit easier with every kiss he gave her, with every look and every touch dismantling her own doubt piece by piece. </p><p>“I’m all yours,” he said, pulling away. She knew he couldn’t have read her thoughts, nobody could. She knew he simply referred to the fact that he finished working and was now free to spend the rest of the day with her, but Aoife couldn’t help but feel a little pang in her chest at these words, because it did <em> feel </em>as if he read her thoughts. </p><p>It was so uncanny how sometimes things between them just clicked together. </p><p>“What do you want to do?” </p><p>“Climb you like a tree that you are!” would have been the sincerest answer. But Aoife wanted to be productive, although lately she’s been feeling more tired than usual. A lot of circumstances were to blame for this, the two of them not getting enough sleep would be the main culprit, she guessed. </p><p>Also, Maeve. She sent the three of them a letter saying that she’s sorry she can’t be back yet, and missed them all dearly. However the letter contained no explanation of her absence and no return address. It was delivered, the girls said, by a courier who swore a caretaker handed it in. And Aoife willingly saddled herself with Maeve’s share of work for a time… </p><p>Things should have been getting better any day now. Currently Florion only worked in the shop for half the weekdays, allegedly spending the rest to craft remedies, some of which he supplied the Temple apothecary with, and Aoife took the High Priestess on her offer to get away after lunch every first, third and sixth day to, again, allegedly, practice music. </p><p>Right, so, productive. </p><p>“Uhm… We could go for a walk and get some samples?” Nothing wrong with that. They both loved doing it. If need be, they could reach so very high when they worked together.</p><p>He <em> tsked. </em>“Not very festive.” </p><p>Festive? Why was it supposed to be festive? She looked at him questioningly, moving away a little. </p><p>“If I remember the date correctly, it was exactly two years ago that you arrived here.”</p><p>“Huh. Yes.”</p><p>Among everything else happening, she’d forgotten. Even Mahri’s birthday party yesterday did not remind her of it, although, as she was indulging in a huge slice of pie and watching the girls play tag in the garden, something stirred in her. As if she needed to remember something important. This was probably it.  </p><p>“Taking walks in the name of botany is great and all,” he said, touching the tip of her nose with his. “But I was thinking, something else. Something completely non-work related.” </p><p>The aldamaari did not welcome overexertion, because it reflected badly on the end result of anyone’s labors. And because “as long as there’s enough food for everyone, the rest doesn’t really matter”, they said. There was always enough food. So whenever Aoife overworked herself, she did it off her own volition. This had to stop, too. He said it had to, and she agreed.</p><p>“What do you have in mind?”</p><p>By the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, she thought she knew the answer already. <em> You. </em>But there were, she felt, specifics to it. He reached as if to kiss her again, but then moved away. </p><p><em> No diminishing returns. </em>The more they discovered about each other’s bodies and the more of her shame, and embarrassment, and self consciousness she was managing to leave behind, the sweeter the whole process became. </p><p>She whimpered, begging for another kiss as his hands moved down and were slowly rolling up the hem of her dress. </p><p>The tip of his tongue darted out and licked her lower lip. Aoife tried to catch it, but he squeezed her now bare thighs assertively, and she stilled. <em> I love this game we play. </em>Her, pretending to unconditionally give him every last drop of power and control. Him, pretending to be her strict master. It felt… It felt a little like medicine for the mind. </p><p>“Hands behind your back,” he said. He didn’t say “please”, and it didn’t sound in the least bit as a request. It was an order. And she obeyed, moaning quietly, eyes veiled. </p><p>Aoife tried the <em> word </em> once. Not because she wanted him to stop, but because her insecure mind pushed her into it, needing to make sure. It worked, like spells work in fairy tales, instantly, magically, as he withdrew, although it must have been an insanely hard thing for him to do in the heat of the moment; still, he did it, head bowed, hands darting away, an apology ready to slip off his lips. The knowledge that she had the power to stop the game always kept her safe from fear now. <em> I love this so much.   </em></p><p>“Such a good girl,” he said, briefly nuzzling her cheek. “Would you like to know what I just made?” Florion asked, one hand crawling down the column of her throat, the fingers of the other, slowly moving up her inner thigh.  </p><p>“Yes,” she breathed out.   </p><p>“It’s one half of a gift. The first half,” he reached into his back pocket and produced a small paper box, “is this.” He opened it and showed her. </p><p>“Oh,” Aoife said, because there were no appropriate words that she was capable of saying out loud. Not yet, anyway. “It’s… it’s...”</p><p>A butt plug. Gently narrowed and conical at the tip but widening, and narrowing again, smoothly flowing into what must have been a handle. Its size even at the widest point, quite tame. Aoife thought these things were bigger. </p><p>She’d only seen one in the book as part of another ridiculous diagram that, quite literally, told you where to shove it. </p><p>“The other half is a jar of cream. And I’m going to use both, if you let me, to train your lovely ass to take my cock. Just these for now. Would you let me, Aoife?”</p><p>She let out a quiet moan. </p><p>“I assume that’s a yes. But I’m going to need you to say it. Out loud.”</p><p>She’d be extremely ashamed to admit it, but she really liked it when he played with her <em> back there. </em>Drat, even thinking about it was shameful. But she forced out a breathy “yes”, because she hated her shame and wanted to kill it. </p><p>Except, this thing, though looking solid, was still…</p><p>“It’s made of glass,” she said, voicing her realization, and he heard the anxiety in her voice. </p><p>“Didn't you drop your hairpin last week?”</p><p>“I did.” And it nearly gave her a heart attack when it slipped out of her loose bun and plummeted to the floor. </p><p>“And what happened to it?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Aoife whispered. </p><p><em> His promises were made to last, </em>he told her then. And when she asked what was it that he'd promised, exactly, the answer remained worldless, because it was this: his head buried between her legs until her knees started to give out, and then him holding her up against the wall and fucking her breathless into it until she wailed. It was a good answer. A clear and comprehensive one. </p><p>“It’s very, very sturdy. I promise.”</p><p>Glass made by humans was always so fragile. She wondered what sort of mineral went into this one, to make it look almost like smoothly carved obsidian (or maybe it was just that?). </p><p>Aoife shifted in her seat. The perspective seemed oddly tempting. She did not expect this reaction from herself. But her body, not without his help, continued to surprise her. </p><p>“I want to. Today?”</p><p>“Whenever you allow me to,” he offered. </p><p>“Florion...”</p><p>“Mm?” He stroked her hair gently.</p><p>“Would you… Would you maybe run the boiler and then...” Aoife shut her eyes and exhaled. “And then bathe me?”</p><p>Today. She wanted to try it today. In the bath in case it’d get messy, although she’d take every available precaution for it not to be. </p><p>He touched his lips to her jaw and exhaled against it before saying, “It will be my pleasure. Give me your hand now.”</p><p>She slid her hands forward again and did, but then declared, “I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit. If.. If I may.”</p><p>“You may.” </p><p>Well, it was downright lucky that she still had the book with all the idiotic but educational explanations. The one she took from the library Aoife’s since returned, but soon enough, a fresh, crispy copy arrived at their doorstep. A reprint to remain in this house and allegedly liven it up, although, Florion added, “judging by the sounds, barely anyone needs it”. She needed it, now. To find the pages she’d been too ashamed to even look at, and read through them. Maybe her anxiety would be replaced by fits of nervous laughter or, maybe, it would be quelled somewhat. Aoife knew that she could just ask Florion anything, but this… She could not form the words. </p><p>She flipped through the pages, trying not to look at the pictures. For once, she needed the text. But then Aoife remembered <em> “with a warrior’s cry” </em> and indeed started laughing, and stopped flipping for a while, overcome with tenderness for him and his boyish, stupid, sassy sense of humor. </p><p>The book had some pointers, but they were mostly guidance for the one giving, not the one taking. The rest, she followed, not knowing if it was enough to make her feel less insecure.  </p><p>But he knew how to do just that. He always knew.  </p><p>At times she absurdly forgot about just how big he was, despite the fact that he’s taken to carrying her around so much. While his endowment wasn’t nearly as intimidating anymore (“It’s honestly quite proportionate to the rest of him, if not smaller, thank you very much!” Aoife told the girls when they started playfully mocking her again), now that she knew she could take him and stretch around him so deliciously, the sheer size of his body was quite a different story. Not muscled or burly in the way fisherfolk or caretakers were, Florion was instead sinewy, lean and lithe, and almost <em>elegant, </em>she thought, like a beautiful tall flower with a sturdy stalk, and in that regard, he reminded her of a gerbera daisy. But his height as compared to hers, and the strength of his hands, and arms, and shoulders, cultivated by the nature of his work, were still supposed to be somewhat terrifying. Only they weren’t, not anymore, now that she knew of how gentle he could be. And the thought felt reassuring once again. </p><p>There was always little light in this room, with the only window carved up next to the high ceiling, a semicircle blurred pane; And usually they lit up multiple lamps. Not this time. He put out and lit only some candles on the floor around the bath, filled to the brim with steaming hot water and fluffy foam. Close enough to give some meager light, far enough not to get water on them. It was eerie, and strange, and beautiful - the way their tiny twinkling flames reflected off marble panels and painted rainbows on the soap bubbles. The latter smelled so strongly of lavender, Aoife couldn’t help but inhale deeply. She loved this smell so very much, because it reminded her of Florion. He brought a bottle of wine and two glasses, as well, but she did not want wine. She wanted him. Still, the gesture… </p><p><em> All of this for your perversions? Lighting candles to shove things into your ass? How charming and festive indeed. </em> Aoife stopped, clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and violently <em> smothered </em>her nasty inner voice, imagining herself crushing its throat under her fingers.  </p><p>All of this, just to make her feel more comfortable. Because he knew she liked the carnal side of their relationship the way she never expected to like anything, and he knew she wanted to like and to enjoy it even more, without regard for her insecurities. Without her insecurities. </p><p>“My love.” <em> He wants me. He loves me. </em>He saw her while stacking towels next to the bath, got up and extended his hand. “Happy anniversary.” </p><p>Two years ago an orphaned girl by the name of Eve, thin as a rake, hunched, weak, feeble, sick and terrified, with her cheeks sunken, her eyes hollow, her hair, nothing but a fragmented stubble on her scabbed head, stepped onto the shore in this very town, hoping for something, anything good, but still expecting the worst. She never dared expect this. <em> Him. </em>She never dared expect so much love, and tenderness, and trust. </p><p>“I love you.” She never dared expect to say these words to a man, and mean them. “I love you, Florion. I’m yours.”</p><p>“As I am yours,” he echoed. “Always. Let me take care of you?” His smile was so playful and sweet when he said it that her heart started melting alongside her joints. </p><p>Aoife nodded her consent. As he reached to undress her, he gave her promises. “If anything is uncomfortable, I’ll stop. If anything is too painful, I’ll stop. If you feel like you never want me to do a thing again, I will never do it again. Just say the word.”</p><p>The word… The <em> trust</em>. </p><p>“I want to… I want to try everything with you,” she breathed in as he pulled off her sundress, discarded it and knelt to kiss her belly, her muscles contracting at the familiar touch of his lips. “Anything and everything.” </p><p>“Good. But the only thing I truly want to do tonight is, make you sing,” Florion said, looking up at her. And he always did, putting her pleasure before his every time, drinking in her every positive reaction, every word, every sound. She trusted him so much, with every fibre of her being. “The rest doesn’t matter.”</p><p>He helped her into the bath and followed after, while already so hard it looked nearly painful. Despite the latter, his kisses were soft and unhurried, set at a leisurely pace; and the touch of his fingertips on her skin felt magical and otherworldly, just like his eyes in the candlelight. He seemed keen on following the ever present aldamaari proverb this time, in everything he did, as he took a soaped loofah off the edge of the bath and washed her arms, starting from her fingers, then moved to her shoulders, neck and collarbone, and lathered her breasts in the fragrance of lavender soap. He did the same with her feet and legs, caressing as he went, and she moaned softly, head leaning against the marble. Lifting her up under the waist with one hand, he used the other to wash her belly and pubis, then rinsed the soap off, palmful by palmful of water, holding it like a scoop. The latter was redundant, but Aoife allowed herself to relax, forced herself not to think, to enjoy it, all of it. He’d exhale every time she whimpered, and her heart would quiver every time the light of the candles did. </p><p>“Turn around,” he said, and she obeyed, with difficulty, water chaotically sloshing around, the whole of her body already warm and unresponsive. As she leaned her forehead against the edge and clung to it with her fingers, he washed her back. She liked that he didn’t change the pressure when he did it, and didn't treat her as someone sickly and in pain, instead keeping to the pace he’d set before. Guided by him, Aoife arched her back so that her backside would stick out of the water, and he slowly lathered every inch of skin he could reach there in foam, too, groaning softly, but not doing anything <em> invasive </em>as of yet, even when he washed between her legs, soapy fingers gently brushing her folds and making her moan. </p><p>His ministrations were not too slowly turning her into a mellow and pliant mess, aching for him, but, yet again, she attempted to brush each and every turbulent thought off and away. Florion wasn’t rushing, so she shouldn’t either. When he rinsed the rest of the soap off, he gently guided her once more, for her elbows to rest on a fluffy towel folded at the edge. She recognized the following change in his movements at once, heart fluttering with excitement. This was Florion when he couldn’t take the slow pace anymore. Florion, when he ached for her so much he could no longer hold back. Florion, her beautiful spring flower, turning carnivorous and going for the kill. </p><p>Just like the first time he did it to her; but back then he was mostly cautious, gentle, and studying her still, now he knew the exact places to go, with his lips and tongue, and the exact speed and manner needed to make her howl in seconds. Except this time, his fingers were squeezing, stretching apart, and then his tongue moved slowly higher, licking over her asshole, and Aoife twitched away from him instantly.</p><p>“Do you not like this?” he asked, voice deep and low and heavy. </p><p>Head half turned, she muttered, “I do, I like it, it’s just… This…”</p><p>“Shhh,” he interrupted. “Then relax… Please, relax. Let go. I want this.”</p><p>Her shame was raging, shrieking, thrashing as she fought to contain it, yet what Florion was doing to her with his tongue, and how willingly he did it, and the sounds he was making along the way, contradicted everything, <em> everything </em> her inner voice was screaming at her. Contradicted and overpowered, and in a while, when a forefinger snaked up slowly between her folds and slid inside, Aoife sank lower and mewled helplessly at the delicious sensations. Florion pumped it in time with the movements of his tongue on her asshole, and she dropped her head, no longer able to keep it up. There was a thread of saliva streaming from her mouth, she noticed in a bit; yet her throat felt oddly dry, and Aoife swallowed. It <em> ached </em>between her legs; heartbeat pulsing right down into the little nub of nerves Florion chose to ignore — perhaps, on purpose. Her fingers darted down and rubbed it, a hoarse moan escaping her lips, and she leaned ever so slightly back, and was rewarded with a growl. </p><p><em> Obscene. </em>No. Good. So good, oh, sweet mother of mercy, this felt so good. </p><p>The jar of cream was right by her, its contents still warm and, with effort, she pushed it towards Florion with her elbow, instead of struggling and inevitably failing to ask him to give her more, do more, try more. </p><p>He understood, as he always did. The cap clanked against the marble, and he dipped his finger into it and then, breaching with surprising ease, fast in before she could tense around, into her. Aoife inhaled sharply, twitching her muscles again, but held herself in place.  </p><p>“Florion… O my beautiful flower… Please...”</p><p>He sank, perhaps, only one knuckle of his forefinger in, and she helplessly clenched around him, and around the unfamiliar sensation. </p><p>“So tight, sweet thing. Relax for me, would you?” He barely moved his finger for a while, instead gently caressing her thigh and backside with his other hand, until the shaking stopped, until she finally felt steady enough to do as he asked. And when she did, he instantly pushed deeper. </p><p>The sound she let out then, Aoife was pretty sure, was entirely new and unique. </p><p>“How does it feel?”</p><p>“Oh g… Florion! This feels… A-ah...” Describing it to him, or at all, seemed impossible, and she'd fail if she tried. It was foreign, and unfamiliar, and peculiar, but most of all... “Good, so good.”</p><p>“Go on, where were your fingers just now, keep them there, touch yourself.”</p><p>Once she obeyed she found herself drenched, and it wasn’t bathwater. Her cunt felt strangely empty and neglected, but it only added to the sensation. Not for long, though. Next, there were two fingers, one inside each of her holes. He pressed them close together, like a clip to paper, pinching the inner wall between them. It felt amazing.</p><p>“Do you… Do you like doing this to me?” Her stupid mind, still looking for assurances. </p><p>But he answered readily and eagerly, voice feverish, breaking at times, so full of arousal it was. “Aoife, I love it. Delicious, delicious girl, I love all of you. And I love your tight cunt, love how it clenches my fingers and my cock, love your sweet little asshole. Can’t wait to fuck it. I’m dying to fuck it. Can’t wait to make you scream as you slowly take it. Love making you come so, so much. Nothing compares to the feeling, Aoife. Love the sounds you make when I fuck you, sweet thing. You are so gorgeous.”</p><p>He sounded drunk on lust. And his words were pushing her towards an orgasm even faster than his fingers did. Despite the fact that she desperately wanted to delay it, sensing, almost knowing, that the sheer power of it would make her collapse. </p><p>“Florion, I… I l-love it when you talk like this. When you tell... me... nice things.”</p><p>“How could I not, my love? You are breathtaking, I love you so very much,” he said, his fingers still unabated, at work. “I want you, all the time. Every time I think of you, it makes my cock throb with want. It makes my heart flutter with happiness.”</p><p>“Please, Florion, please…” she begged, clouded gaze darting to the paper box on the floor. “Put… Put that thing inside me. S-stretch me.” </p><p>He snarled. </p><p>She squirmed as he pulled out. His hands, unsurprisingly, weren’t as steady anymore, but Florion managed to fumble for the toy and get it out of the box, and lather a generous helping of cream on it, all the while Aoife was watching him, and shaking, panting, suffocated by her arousal. </p><p>“Relax,” he reminded her, and this once it was easier to surrender and obey. Fists caught in the crumpled towel, she arched her back again, this time barely flinching at the unfamiliar touch. Florion steadied her with his hand again. “It’s going in now,” he said and angled it, and <em> pushed in</em>. </p><p>It met resistance, and then it didn’t, and the sensation was so sharp that... “Oh f-f-f…. u-u-ck!” </p><p>...that an obscene, liberating word was <em> pushed out </em>of her in turn, in time with the final slide of the smooth surface of the toy against her inner walls. Breaching, filling, stretching. Ears barely registering the soothing noises Florion made, and feather-light touches of his fingertips against her thigh. </p><p>It was a foreign object, one that was supposed to feel painful, but instead it made her feel <em> tingles </em> in places she never thought herself capable of feeling them<em>.  </em></p><p>“Such a good girl. You took it all in, in one go. And what a beautiful sight.” He was looking. She could feel his gaze on her, and let her eyes fall closed. </p><p>Her breathing was as heavy as if she just ran half a mile, as she struggled to adapt to the sensation but, more than the latter, to the bawdy realization that she liked it. <em> No. </em> Not bawdy. Not obscene, not indecent, not shameful. <em> Delicious.  </em></p><p>“How does it feel, Aoife?” he asked, seemingly mesmerized, tracing the tip of his finger around the blunt end of the handle, and she shivered. </p><p>“Please,” she begged, not really answering his question with words, because words were meaningless at the moment. “More, do more to me.”</p><p>He abided, a low growl in his chest, and <em> more </em> was this: two of his fingers inside her drenched cunt, sinking nearly all the way in; Her, screaming out his name.  </p><p>“I can feel it,” he murmured moments later, when she was very nearly breathless. “I can feel it inside of you.” He curled his fingers, and she <em> wailed </em> at the intensity, still yearning for more. “Now touch yourself for me again.”</p><p>Aoife wanted to do the latter, she kept on wanting to continuously do it but it was all so much; these sensations, an assault on her limbs, her head, her flushed skin. Her body barely felt like her own anymore, her fingers, wandering, dropping, losing control, losing track. She did as he asked though, disentangling them from the towel first, and <em> oh </em> surely he felt it, too. </p><p>He growled right into her ear, “Thaaaat’s it. Go on, sweet thing, are you going to come? Going to come all around my fingers, with that thing in your tight ass?” He curved his feebly shaking digits around the handle of the toy, and <em> tugged.  </em></p><p>A lightning. </p><p>“Florion!”</p><p>“Go on, my love, I can feel you tightening, please, won’t you come for me and let me see it?” And tugged some more, not enough to pull even an inch of it out, but enough for her to feel the maddening stretch. </p><p>“I… Florion, I want… I want your cock. Ins-s-tead of your fingers. Please. Now!” <em> Now, now, now.  </em></p><p>She craved the feel, the heat of him, his nails digging into the malleable flesh of her ass. </p><p>Aoife held back, wanting but not daring to come, as he growled again and, pulling her buttcheeks apart with almost brutal determination, did as she asked. Aoife choked on a scream as he was slowly sinking into her cunt; the sounds they were making almost matched and, maybe, had the power to raise the dead. </p><p>“Oh, f-fuck, so tight, Aoife, you are going to milk me dry.” His voice, suddenly an octave higher than usual, not the other way around; groans stuck in his throat, hips, with water splashing around them, thrusting into her relentlessly, too aroused, too over the edge to hold back. </p><p>“Harder, harder, please, harder!”</p><p>She never knew it was possible to feel so <em> filled, </em> and yet, absurdly, she wanted even more of it. <em> Don’t rush.  </em></p><p>For a while, there was nothing but the snap of his relentless thighs, the delicious, delicious drag of him inside, with tangible resistance but no pain at all. More than a few times, as he sheathed his cock in, he pulled the toy slightly out, up until its widest point was stretching the rosette of her ass. At least, that’s what it felt like he was doing. Aoife gave herself to him entirely, willing, with difficulty, for her hips to slacken, and just let him do whatever he was doing. </p><p>“I love it so muuuuch!” The last syllable turned into a squeal. </p><p>“Can’t… Won’t hold for long,” Florion warned her. A first, she registered vaguely. “Feels… too good.”</p><p>But it’s alright, she’s been on the verge of coming for what felt like eternity. </p><p>All Aoife was able to push out of her lungs, edging herself dangerously close, was, “I want… Together…” </p><p>“Yes, my love, yes… Gods, you’re getting even tighter, o-oh y-yes-s!” </p><p>She screamed openly, loudly, peaking against her own fingers, around his manhood, around the toy, it felt like an orgasm tripled. This she already knew to be the best feeling in the world, the way he came so deep inside of her, his thick cock pulsing, but coming the very second he did, their muscles throbbing together, their screams, intermingled, felt even better. <em> How is it possible for sex to feel even better than it already did.  </em></p><p>Coming down, collapsing into the water and Florion’s arms, Aoife realized that the butt plug felt slightly more foreign now, with muscles clenching tighter around it, and she whimpered against Florion’s shoulder, and then whimpered again, louder, as he slowly pulled it out. </p><p>“This was amazing,” he said, almost breathless. “I loved it so much.”</p><p>It really was, and she really did, too. <em> Wow.  </em></p><p>“I loved it, too.”</p><p>He pulled her onto his lap and then into a kiss. The latter was slow, and languid and, as their tongues intertwined, Aoife pressed the memories of what just happened closer, storing them safely away: another little piece of carnal, delicious, and <em> happy.  </em></p><p>“What else do you love, Aoife?”</p><p>She felt so relaxed, so warm, so pliant. And somehow, the dam burst. Although she knew if she stopped for even a second, she wouldn’t be able to continue speaking. </p><p>“I love it when you whisper in my ear. Your voice does things to me. I love it when you’re rough and possessive, and your eyes are dark. But I also love it when you’re gentle, and tender, and slow. That sweet moment when you penetrate me and stretch me open feels so good, I sometimes don’t really know how I remain conscious. When you come inside of me, and I can feel you throbbing. Like you… it did just now. I love it when you look at me as I come, it makes me feel so beautiful and so desired. I love it when you squeeze my throat when I come, too. I love... love taking you in my mouth.”   </p><p>He pressed her even closer, lifting her with both arms, nose and lips against her neck. There were other confessions, very particular confessions. Maybe she was still too ashamed to say them out loud, or, maybe, she left them in store for another time. </p><p>“And this. I love this. Trying… I want more of it.” </p><p><em> I want… everything. </em>There were things she’d only just found out she liked. There were things she suspected she might like if she would muster the courage to try them. And there were probably things she didn’t even know about, but wanted to learn and try nonetheless. </p><p>When the water grew too cold they finally decided to get up and out. Aoife’s head was spinning, but Florion held her around the thighs and made it easier, supportive arms balancing out her vertigo. </p><p>“Festive?” he asked, a smile on his lips as he was carefully dabbing her with a towel, not letting her down from his lap. </p><p>“Festive,” she replied. “But I want you again.”</p><p>And so did he. </p><p>“Let’s go be festive upstairs then.”</p><p> </p><p>A peculiar characteristic of the passage of time: when you are miserable, it drags. It drags at best; At worst, it feels like it’s going backwards. When you are happy, it flies on steady wings, and the most beautiful moments don’t listen to proverbs or follow them, they rush and rush, and speed up and rush some more, as if trying to escape your grasp. No matter. She’d have more of those moments to live through, Aoife told herself, although still having trouble believing the latter. These weeks have gone by so fast it felt improbable. </p><p>Their first fight… did not happen. She kept expecting it to happen, over some tiny inconsequential thing, maybe. Logically, there was no reason they wouldn’t talk it out. Sure, logic rarely reigns where shame and insecurities are involved. But still. </p><p>And yet it did not happen. </p><p>Their first day without sex and even the idea of it unthinkable, did happen quite soon. When they both got horrible food poisoning. </p><p>It’s been hours of this. Exuding bodily fluids, crying and groaning. Florion was curled up into a ball on the edge of the bed, gripping his belly.</p><p>“We need to stop eating from the same plate,” Aoife growled, her voice by this point already changed into a gruff baritone of its own volition. </p><p>“Yes. We need to. But we’re not going to,” Florion replied weakly, his expression that of pure unadulterated anguish. </p><p>“We’re really not.”</p><p>And she lay flat on the other side of it, trying to steady her stomach, and failing, and then bending once again over the side in, she thought distractedly, precisely the same place Ouhri did weeks before. Except, she aimed into a basin. Almost hit the mark. </p><p>“I’m disgusting,” Aoife mewled, wiping her mouth. She certainly felt the part. </p><p>“Don’t say that, don’t ever say that, you’re beau—” Freezing mid-word, he grasped his belly tighter, made a muted tortured sound, sprang up and half-ran, half-crawled across the hall…  </p><p>When he got slightly better, at least well enough to make childish jokes (“I think if there <em> are </em> gods out there they have, either way, cursed and forsaken me and my bowels forever”) and to cook, Florion brewed some weird tea with salt and slices of a cream-colored root, and Aoife nearly retched again while forcing it down, but felt relief almost instantly after drinking. Relief enough to sleep.</p><p>Yet Aoife found her stomach heaving again once she woke up, and retched over the toilet bowl until she was absolutely empty, and still felt nauseous after. The thought of going to work made her want to cry but, as stubborn as she was, she decided to go nonetheless, disregarding Florion’s pleas not to (“But <em> you </em> are going!” - “I’m feeling fine, and you are not.”). This could have been their first fight, too, if they did not achieve a compromise in minutes. She went, a bottle of his tea in tow, and a promise to go to the clinic and then home if things got worse.  </p><p>It was only at midday that Aoife went through the symptoms in her head once more and suddenly remembered that she hasn’t had her moon blood yet. It simply didn’t come last month, and she forgot all about it. <em> How the hell did I forget? </em>Shaking slightly, she started counting weeks on her fingers. Correct. Her last one was nearly two months ago, a miserable overture to a most miserable week. </p><p>“It can’t be,” Aoife muttered over the pit loom. Yes, she felt tired nearly all the time lately, yes, she felt slightly sick and nauseous in the mornings before this one, yes, her appetite was gone some days completely, yes, lately her breasts had become so sensitive that the slightest touch of Florion’s tongue to her nipples made her yelp, but she ascribed the latter to something entirely different, mainly, her own sensuality, and not… <em> I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. </em></p><p>This was not possible. They were of two different species, and <em> half-lion babies </em> do not exist anywhere outside of fairy tales. </p><p>It wasn’t getting worse but it wasn’t getting any better, and the tea didn’t help much. A courier girl dropped by on an errand, and Aoife asked her to pass Florion a message. She felt too weak to walk to him or to the Clinic on her own, and too stubborn and guarded to distract others from their work and ask for help.  </p><p>Aoife thought feverishly of things she would say to him, to the healer. To anyone and everyone. They had a way of determining a pregnancy, she knew this by now, so they would probably ask her to pee in a jar, or something of the sort. And then, if it was really true, there’d be endless questions about how it happened, where did she find a human man, <em> no other humans are allowed here, </em> and so on. A lot of questions she did not know the answers to, or did but those weren’t the answers they would believe. And Florion… would he believe her? And if she truly was pregnant, what now? Thinking about the latter, oddly enough, was the only thing that made her feel good. Vaguely excited. She’d never had any maternal instincts before, so this was the most suspicious thing of all. <em> Oh sweet mother of mercy, I am pregnant.   </em></p><p>He barged into the manufactory in less than half an hour, walked around the looms wordlessly and lifted her up by the shoulders. </p><p>“Can you walk?”</p><p><em> Barely. </em>“I can.” </p><p>But he carried her most of the way, because he knew a lie when he heard one. </p><p>“They’ll help. I’ll help,” he told her. “Don’t be afraid.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Aoife said. But she was. Not of her state, no. Of suspicion and accusations. Of his reaction to this all. </p><p>She walked through the garden towards the clinic, clinging to his arm, feeling faint and out of breath already when it happened. She only heard a faint buzzing noise, then felt a sharp prickle to her neck, and in the next moment, the ground was flying up to meet her slowly. They did not reach each other, Aoife was yanked up by Florion, and then he gasped. </p><p>“No!” he howled all of a sudden, attempting, and failing, to catch the insect in his fist. “No, no, no! Don’t you dare, you monster!”</p><p>Why was he screaming? So overprotective… Just an insect bite. Least of their worries now, and… </p><p>There was a sharp searing pain shooting through her lower belly and, clutching it momentarily, Aoife started screaming, too. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Light Angst (flashbacks), Rimming, Anal Play, Butt Plug, Vaginal Sex, Morning Sickness, Debilitation, Mentions of Diarrhea and Vomiting, Pregnancy Scare, Unplanned Pregnancy</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. The Rope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*More depressing flashbacks. Who the hell let them in again, aren’t they on the no-fly list?<br/>*Glass butt plugs are fine as long as they are hand-made by a cute local craftsman along with the lube, and are also maybe magical?<br/>*A cruel plot twist that I swear is needed for the plot, but I’m still deeply sorry. :(</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “They call it kliniko, and it is used to house sickly people in separate rooms. It is white and pristine, yet horrible things I have witnessed there. Children prodded with needles with deadly diseases on them, sleeping men with their bellies being cut open behind a glass. Bags full of blood flowing through tubes into other sleeping men. Could it be they need blood to survive, like the nightly creatures of legend? Then: a woman giving birth in a pool, with at least two men in the room, one of which must have been her husband, and the other seemingly served as midwife. I hid and watched. No shame, truly, in these women, and no rightful suffering allotted to them, as her every whim was catered to and after she’d been jabbed with a long needle in her back, she seemed not to be in pain anymore and gave birth without screaming. No wonder these heathens are so carefree, they seem to be borne into indulgence.” </em>
</p><p>Long ago Florion asked his father why it was that he never settled with anyone, why he never had children of his own. “But I do have a son of my own,” dad told him, and Florion hung and shook his head but was then pulled into a bone-crushing hug. “There was this one woman when I was younger,” Darius said. “We were going steady, she got pregnant. And then she miscarried.” They knew for months, they expected a child. They started to build a nursery in the attic. The room that he, Florion, later called his own. But the occurrence drove them apart. Or maybe the realization that it was just a perspective of parenthood that kept them together. “No hard feelings. And now I’ve got you.”</p><p><em> This isn’t our story. </em> There was never supposed to be a baby in the picture for them. <em> You shouldn’t mourn what you haven’t known.  </em></p><p>The man kept on talking, but Florion barely listened. </p><p>She’d stayed conscious for a while. She kept saying, “It’s yours. Please trust me, it’s yours, I had nothing… No one else before you.”</p><p>And he had not understood what she meant when she’d said it. He did now. </p><p>“Judging by the amount and intensity of the discharge, I’d say the gestational age was miniscule, just a few weeks.” <em> Was.  </em></p><p>He had no idea. Not a single, tiniest suspicion of her state. <em> Some master of observation I am. </em> But she did. <em> For how long? Hours, days?  </em></p><p>This was unheard of. They said humans and aldamaari could not conceive of each other. Apparently there was no lack of trying, but no one ever succeeded. <em> A first time for everything. </em> Of course he did trust her. Unconditionally. The child was his. <em> Was.  </em></p><p>So then they’ve probably conceived the very first time they made love. The very first time he spilled inside her. </p><p>“Are you <em> sure </em> there weren’t any humans around? Maybe someone sneaked into—”</p><p>Florion’s gaze must have seared him, because the healer shut up all at once, sighed, opened a cabinet and produced a small jar filled with dark green pills. “Once a day with a meal. Any side effects, come see me.”</p><p>He nodded his acceptance curtly, still not sure if he wanted to take godswattle. If they could have children together… If Aoife truly could conceive of him… Would it be even prudent to… </p><p>But she lost it, and she was in so much pain. His poor songstress, ravaged, bloody, suffering, clinging to him, sobbing when they carried her in. If there ever was a chance of this happening again, he had to. Had to. <em> Right? </em>Florion reached for the jar and slid it across the table towards himself, eyes clouded with tears. </p><p>He did this to her. His seed did this to her. </p><p>
  <em> No.  </em>
</p><p>The child was taken from her. It was <em>Him </em>who had taken it from her, from them. His god, his prison warden. <em>Why did he sting her in the garden. Why did he sting them all right next to a clinic where they could get help in minutes. </em></p><p>Florion turned away to hide the tears amassing in the corners of his eyes, and clenched his fists. A door behind him shut with a bang, and he allowed himself to let go. Crying as he has never cried before, nearly wailing with the pain.  </p><p>
  <em> He will never set me free.  </em>
</p><p>Florion declined Lideo and Heleine’s offer because what they proposed was not enough, just a pale imitation of the real thing. If he were to have a child, he wanted to be always present, as long as he could, to be a real father, just like his father was to him. So he never dared even dream of having children of his own, knowing, <em> sensing </em> it wasn’t allowed. </p><p>And He, evidently, had just let Florion know that it indeed wasn’t. </p><p>Tears still choking him, fists still clenched, Florion made his way up the goat path. </p><p>“Was it a sacrifice?” he screamed into the stone, his shaking palm splayed on the ice cold surface. “Was it a payment for the ship? Answer me, damn you!” </p><p>The apertures slowly opened. No insects emerged, but the voice did. And it didn’t argue, deny, or make excuses. Kenn never did. </p><p>“The pregnancy. Was not viable. A mistake. Had been made. This needs. To be rectified.”</p><p>Rage rising up from his throat, Florion let out a howl instead of words. </p><p>“Give me. Your hand.”</p><p>“I am not,” Florion hissed through gritted teeth, “giving you anything, you monster.”</p><p>Kenn’s tone did not change in the slightest. It never did. </p><p>“The pregnancy. Was not viable. No chance. Of carrying to term. It would have. Killed her. In weeks. This cannot. Happen. This will. Not happen. Again. Give me. Your hand.” </p><p>There would be no further explanation. There never were any. He asked nonetheless. </p><p>“Why do you need my hand? What do you want to do to me?” </p><p>“Fix you.”</p><p>What?! But something else, something he initially tuned out... </p><p>“What do you mean when you say this cannot happen? For once, for <em> once, </em>give me a straight answer!”</p><p>“She must. Live. Thrive.”</p><p>Florion all but froze. Was his god, the god that took their child when it had only just started forming, <em> caring </em> for Aoife? Was that what he was saying? <em> Why did he sting her right next to the clinic? He could have done so much worse if he truly meant harm. Another trick? </em></p><p>His weakened knees gave out. </p><p>“What is she to you?” he asked. Not screamed, not yelled against the wind; a small, pitiable, almost noiseless question.</p><p>“She is. My everything.”</p><p>No trust left. No trust for this… creature, this beast, this trickster god. Lies, all lies. </p><p>“Give me. Your hand.”</p><p>“And if I don’t?”</p><p>“Then she. Will die. Everything. Will die.”</p><p><em> It feels like it’s been preordained. It feels like this is not my choice to make. Why, why do I feel this way. </em>Not looking up, Florion lifted his arm, and slid a finger into an aperture. A weak prickle followed, and nothing else. He did not collapse, he did not feel worse than he already felt. </p><p>“It is. Done. You are. Fixed.”</p><p><em> And why so many more pauses between words now? </em> </p><p>“What else?” he whispered, putting no real meaning into this request and still not looking up.  </p><p>“Nothing. Go.”</p><p>He got up. He did not understand anything. Maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough to understand? But he’d go see her now. To make sure she’s alright. Because if she wasn’t… </p><p>“I am. Sorry. That she. Is in pain,” Kenn said all of a sudden, and the apertures closed. </p><p>Could it be possible that this wasn’t a lie? </p><p>“Acknowledged,” Florion replied. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Aoife woke up in a sunlit room, with cloth between her legs and what felt like a bag of ice on her belly. No pain anymore, but she felt dirty, sticky, disgusting <em> (am I)</em>. And she could barely move. She did not want to think. This wasn’t the first time she’d woken up in this room since midnight. Because Florion was here at night, and he embraced her, and they cried and mourned wordlessly together until she cried herself to sleep. He did trust and believe her, but what good could it do now. </p><p>He wasn’t here anymore. No one was. The door stood shut for a while. </p><p>She did not want to think about what happened. Florion once told her <em> (when was that)</em>, “I am not sure I should mourn what I’ve never known”<em>. </em> But she was sure now, and, Aoife guessed, so was he. </p><p>“I’m sorry, dear. But this was, most certainly, a miscarriage. Oh, you poor girl.”</p><p>Too weak to argue the latter. And maybe now, unlike all those other times, she really was one.</p><p>They gave her pomegranate paste dissolved in water and prune juice. The only solid foods seemingly allowed were greens, pine nuts and boiled buckwheat. But she didn't want any, although the healer insisted that she needed all of this. To replenish the blood loss, and to counteract the effect of... something? She felt dizzy. The ceiling, floating (<em>we have conceived a child, and then immediately lost it).  </em></p><p>Mere hours from the realization to loss. Mere hours from guessing to learning for sure, mere hours to think, and doubt, and feel excitement she did not expect to feel. Mere hours to… (<em>how and why did it happen to me). </em> </p><p>The girls came over, all three including Maeve, and they brought flowers and candy. They seemed to think she had some sudden illness. They groaned for a while about how pale she was, gave her kisses, wished her well. Maeve seemed aloof and talked very little. Maybe she’d realised the truth <em> (why was he screaming)</em>. </p><p>Then another healer came, sighed at the untouched food, gave her medicine to drink which instantly made her even more sleepy and dizzy. He took the flowers away <em> (please, no, they are so pretty)</em>.</p><p>What happened after… Well, Aoife wasn’t sure it was real. Maybe it was a fever dream, materializing people she knew in town. If so, she was grateful that it didn’t materialize any humans. </p><p>Because when she next woke up, Helionas was there, with a woman who must have been his wife? Sister? They looked alike. He wordlessly played something light and cheerful on his gadulka, while the woman arranged Aoife’s pillows and sat away, by the open window, beating out an uneven rhythm against the windowsill. A healer barged in and shooed them away for making so much noise <em> (are they all real)</em>. </p><p>Probably more medicine. Dark void.</p><p>Imogen and a few other fishermen, the names of which she didn’t remember, came and sat with her a while. Chased away as well. </p><p>Dark void. </p><p>Maeve returned alone and… kissed Aoife’s hand? And pressed it against her forehead? </p><p>Void. </p><p>Aoife soiled the bed in a few different ways while she slept, and they transferred her to a cot and changed the sheets. She felt too dissociated to think about it at length, or to be vocally ashamed and remorseful <em> (I’m disgusting)</em>. She forced herself to drink some juice and eat a few pine nuts. She dropped a few more on the floor. She hadn’t been so weak even when she'd had pneumonia. Or maybe there’d been more fight in her back then. Or maybe because she wasn’t alone anymore, and could rely on someone… But she felt hollow, so very hollow (<em>there was a living being inside of me, and then there wasn’t).  </em></p><p>Florion returned. It sounded like he fought his way in before he opened the door. She could see he was suffering greatly, but he did it in silence, and she was way too weak and exhausted to even speak or reach for him. Soon, her fever spiked. She lay there, shivering, covered in sweat, hearing an echo of a conversation in the hallway. Florion was berating someone for incompetence, his voice as angry as she’d never heard it before (<em>is this real, too</em>) because someone wanted to give her medication not meant for humans. Or actually did give her some? <em> (it’s not their fault) </em> Or a lot, repeatedly? They said they didn’t know it wasn’t meant for humans <em> (it’s alright, they haven’t met any humans, unlike him, and wouldn’t know how to treat me). </em> “You bastards have been poisoning her! You could have asked me!” He said he’s taking her back to the house to take care of her himself (<em>please, please)</em>, and Aoife forced her eyes and ears open. But next there was the sound of something breaking, and a rush of hurried footsteps, and other muffled angry noises. “Did you give her antibiotics, at least?” <em> (they’re saying they did, what is antibiotics) </em></p><p>No one forced anything down her throat anymore. There was colorful candy on the bedside table <em> (they look like marbles Florion makes).  </em></p><p>“I love you. I love you. I love you.”</p><p>Her feeble hand in his hand (<em>I love you, too). </em></p><p>They told him that he needed to go and let her sleep. He started arguing. </p><p>Faint buzzing by the window. </p><p>Dark void. </p><p>She’s in a classroom. It looks nothing like an aldamaari classroom because the desks are rectangular and arranged in rows, not in semicircles, and because there are these things… Unfamiliar things around. She cannot see them clearly. But she can see this: every inch of one wall is covered by the same portrait, repeating over and over again, like marble panels in a bathhouse. It’s very realistic looking, and it depicts a man with black hair, pale and slightly yellowy skin, black eyes with flat-lying eyelids (<em>odd eyes). </em> He is smiling a warm but restrained smile. And he is dead (<em>he’s been dead a while). </em>  </p><p>A distracting cough.   </p><p>“Well then.”</p><p>Aoife turns her head. The man with the bushy eyebrows is there too (<em>his name is Mihkel, but he’s no one’s uncle)</em>. He’s wearing a white cotton coat over his usual clothes <em>(is this a ray of light coming out of the cat’s mouth)</em>, shiny spectacles on his crooked nose, and holding an impossibly long wooden pointer. Next to him is a large chalkboard. </p><p>On the board she can clearly see the following words <em> (what language is this) </em>:</p><p>“hOw to BUILd a PerFecT SOciETY (in 3 EASy stepS! Page 14!)</p><p>1) B A L L S </p><p>2) tunasharks???</p><p>3) you fucked up!” </p><p>“All eyes on me, class!” he yells suddenly, extending the pointer toward her as if it was a spear, but not looking. </p><p>Aoife finds herself sitting at one of the desks and she cannot move. She doesn’t care, really. There is no one else here though (<em>am I the class</em>). </p><p>The man, meanwhile, starts to speak, addressing only the rows and rows of portraits, not her. “Wow! What do we have here, honey! Zero syphilis, zero cancer, zero and a half mental illnesses... I mean, janitorial nuns with anger and control issues, and narcissistic grandpas high on their own farts, and claaaassically handsome sailors who are a teensy bit borderline and not such a teensy bit bipolar, well, they might pop up from time to time, but who cares? For overall statistics it’s nothing! And these totally hypothetical sailors, mind you, will still ninja-get plenty of lithium salts while hard at work so all good! Where did the desalinator schematics come from, again? Huh? Either way! Nice job!” </p><p>“What do you...”</p><p>“So!” he interrupts (<em>does he even see me</em>). “How do you build a society like this, a seemingly perfect society, one to make the old bearded chap spring up a pride boner from beyond the grave? What does it require?” Breaking the pointer in two against his knee with ease, discarding the halves.</p><p>Aoife feels like giving up. She feels detached. “What?” she asks with a heaving sigh. The man with the bushy eyebrows still doesn’t turn towards her. He talks for a while. She hears the words but barely understands the meaning behind them. </p><p>“In theory, three things. One, plenty of food. There always needs to be enough for all, and there needs to be a surplus of it and, preferably, a way to utilize the surplus. Two. Technology. Just enough to build a viable infrastructure and live comfortably. And three, the most important part. The people. Healthy, strong but sensitive, empathetic to the extreme, emotionally dependent, horny, constantly happy, no matter what they do as long as they do it for each other’s well being! Just, fuck it, free hugs for all! Nonstop back scratching! Slacking off, avoiding education, being alone, not caring — these are, more or less, taboos. It’s always about the people, actually. You knew that too, didn’t you?” He approaches the portraits and touches one with his fingers so very gently <em> (they loved each other long ago, they loved each other so much). </em> His face, contorted by sorrow for a second, changes back into his usual vitriolic mien as he continues, “Socialism can only go so far, the person cleaning the toilets needs to feel happy about cleaning the toilets! And one power hungry despot is not a menace unless he's got followers to do his bidding. A few bad apples are not a problem if they are rare, and if everyone else is working their asses off for the good of the community. So what do we get? Well, if everything goes according to plan, we get a generally careless hedonistic society, a bunch of happy, carefree saps, all chained together, living life one day at a time, working hard, fucking hard and eating very well. But it never works like this. It never. Fucking. Does. I mean, maybe somewhere in the universe there is a race of reptilians maintaining this shit for thousands of years with no problem, sure. But with this type of brain, no matter what you do to it, no matter how you tweak the anterior insular cortex, it doesn’t work, there’d always be a crash, and soon, if it’s not micromanaged. Right? So there has to be one other thing. Or two other things.” </p><p>This isn’t fair <em> (what does he want from me). </em></p><p>“Why won’t you leave me alone?”</p><p>The man looks directly at her. His expression is pure anxiety. </p><p>“Because. You need to. Clean up. Your mess. Maria.”</p><p>The void is white now. </p><p> </p><p>She woke up tucked in, almost swaddled. Like… <em> Like a baby. </em> Feeling better, lucid. No memories of last night. Was Florion with her? Nothing oozing out of her anymore as well. There was a figure at the door, bathed in light. It looked like this person was just about to leave. </p><p>“My love?” Aoife whispered. </p><p>“Sure hope not,” the figure said with a sigh, shoulders dropping. </p><p>Aoife blinked a few times. The figure took a step sideways, away from the blinding sunlight. A tight, high bun, long neck, eyes that resembled that of a bird of prey. Lideo. </p><p>“I, uhm... I brought you some fish broth. I mean, my wife asked me to bring you some fish broth.” Aoife felt the latter wasn’t entirely true. There was no fish broth, or anything at all, on the bedside table. The healers hadn’t tucked her in once. And Florion wouldn’t swaddle her. </p><p>She started crying. She didn’t really know why and how, tears simply started falling. Not sobs, just water streaming down her face. </p><p>Lideo sighed again. She’d obviously decided to sneak in and then out, while Aoife was asleep. So why wasn’t she leaving now?</p><p>“The healers, they’re not letting me go,” Aoife said to her, simply because she needed to say something, to someone, anyone. “I want him to take care of me, I want to be with <em> him</em>, and they won’t let me go.” </p><p>Lideo took a step towards her. </p><p>“Fuck’em then.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I said, fuck’em. Rosebush knows better.”</p><p>“What are you saying?”</p><p>“I’m saying, let’s get you out.”</p><p>Lideo’s arms were not nearly as strong and steady as they looked, but her tone (“Official dreamer business, get out of the way!”) was commanding enough. She smelled of gunpowder and rosemary soap. They had to stop halfway, because Aoife’s legs did not obey her properly, and that’s when Lideo asked her. </p><p>“You were eavesdropping because you wanted to learn more about him.”</p><p>Well, not precisely asked her. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t an accusation either.</p><p>“Yes,” Aoife said. “I was… infatuated.”</p><p>“And now?” Lideo inquired, yanking her up under the arms with a low grunt. </p><p>“Now, I love him so much I would die for him.”</p><p>“Huh.” And then: “Well, shit, you very nearly did, Squirrel.”</p><p>The last word did not register for a few moments. But when it did, Aoife absurdly felt like crying again. Not another exchange followed. </p><p>Florion was home, and he probably saw them approaching from the roof or a window, because he all but tumbled down the last flight of stairs to meet them, arms extended, when Lideo opened the front door. And his face… <em> A lot of tears. Not a lot of sleep.  </em></p><p>Passing Aoife to him like a sack, without saying anything or waiting for words of gratitude that would surely follow, Lideo immediately retreated, banging the door closed behind her. In a second she came back, produced a jar full of murky from her shoulder bag, put it down on the floor in the hallway, said “Shut the fuck up!” and left again. <em> But this door is actually open now.  </em></p><p>“They let you go!” Fingertips on her cheeks, golden eyes puffy and bloodshot. </p><p>“They didn’t. She broke me out. Will you… Would you...” And now, she did start crying once more. <em> Please take care of me. Please let me lean on you.  </em></p><p>He scooped her up and took her down into the basement, and bathed her carefully. <em> Why isn’t he taking his own clothes off. Why is he barely touching between my legs. I’m disgusting.  </em></p><p>He fed her broth, spoonful by small spoonful, hands steady now, remaining strong for the both of them. They did manage to talk like normal people do. About how she felt, and what she would need to take to make sure she gets well soon and even, for a little bit, how they were trailblazers, with Florion recalling lovers that he’d heard of, most of them from Beruza, all childless, and not for lack of trying. </p><p>“I love you. Nothing is going to change,” he said, and she tried to believe it, but failed. <em> The void isn’t white. </em></p><p>She played the lyre until her fingers nearly bled. Not enough air in her lungs, not enough water left in her body, to sing. </p><p>In the evening, in bed, she clung to him and reached to unbutton his shirt, but stopped midway, averted her eyes. <em> He doesn’t want you anymore, you disgusting sack of meat. </em> </p><p>“What would you like, my love? How can I please you?” <em> He’s pretending.  </em></p><p>“I… May we just cuddle for a while?” </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>And so they did. A battle raging inside her. She wanted him, she always did. Aoife made a few more attempts to act upon it, but they all failed, as if her hands weren’t her own. </p><p>He noticed, he hazarded a guess. “Are you scared it will happen again? I’m taking godswattle, Aoife, at least for now, and it won’t.” </p><p>She shook her head. No, this was not it. She wasn’t scared of getting pregnant again. She was... <em> You’re disgusting. </em>She did not know for sure but she, too, could hazard a guess. That inner voice of hers, one that hated her, seemed to take all of the available space and, with each passing moment, she felt more and more incapable of fighting it. </p><p>“I love you. No matter what,” Florion said. “Our relationship will not be fractured by this. Won’t be broken into a “before” and an “after”.” </p><p>“We won’t let it,” she answered, barely believing it, and his words. <em> You’re appalling.  </em></p><p>~*~</p><p>He once told Aoife that there were actually two Ouhrions, the Playful and the Broken, with a little space between. When Ouhri was on land and off-duty, he was distinctly either one or the other. The former was confident, suave, easygoing, horny, mocking, enthusiastic, annoyingly active, charming, and that was the face most land dwellers knew as his real face. The latter though, Florion explained, was the one he himself knew much better and now, Aoife did, too. Ouhri the Broken was an explosive charge of puerile accusations, grief, endless self-deprecation and doubt. And melancholy. And, eventually, he was a horizontal brick wall. </p><p>But this, right here, right now, was the Playful in all his cheerful glory. All joy; a smile, a hug, a kiss and then another, a barrage of words. </p><p>“She was so right, I sometimes go for hours or even days without thinking about it. Damn, I missed you so much. I missed you both so much. Where is she?”</p><p>“Home.” Still sleeping. Composure was never Florion’s strong suit, but Ouhri still didn’t notice anything, blabbering away about his last tour, and how it was miraculously uneventful, and how Florion was right, too. </p><p>These last two days were hard. They’ve fallen back into their familiar routine, well, almost, because there was something missing. In the physical sense, she felt fine, from what he could tell: no fainting, no tears, no blood, no infection, a healthy blush, a normal appetite. She talked to him and she listened. She played for him, a lot, actually, it almost felt like in the last few days music was her main respite. </p><p>But Florion could clearly see that she was not well in a very different sense. Unlike Ouhri, she kept it all inside. But right now, the two people in his life that he loved most reminded him of each other. Right now, she had a little of the Broken, too. He felt desperately helpless because he didn’t know how to make her feel better, although he stubbornly kept trying every single thing at his disposal. </p><p>And she wouldn’t let him touch her, aside from hugs and kisses, although he wanted her so much it hurt. Respectful and restrained for once, assuming that she needed to recover still, Florion let her be. </p><p>It took Ouhri a few more minutes to notice. He did when they were already halfway to the house. </p><p>“Hey is something bothering you, Flor?”</p><p>It’s as if they’ve exchanged places from where they were last month. </p><p>~*~</p><p>These last few days Aoife had a lot of trouble getting out of bed. They did not let her work but, for once, she didn’t want to, sensing that she wouldn’t be able to do anything properly. So she’d pretend to be asleep for longer than she actually was, then heaved herself up, stubbornly, for Florion’s sake, because she didn't want him to suffer on her behalf, not anymore.</p><p>He wasn’t here now. <em> You’re disgusting. </em>And she imagined that he wouldn’t be back anytime soon, so she stayed put. Thinking, fighting. Fighting. So it was a surprise for her when, barely half an hour later, the door was kicked open with a leg and a bang. </p><p>“Aoife,” Ouhri said, with Florion behind him, looking slightly guilty, slightly paler, slightly browbeaten.  </p><p>“Hey, Ouhri. Welcome back. I’m sorry that I’m—”</p><p>He dropped his backpack on the floor with a massive clank, jumped onto the bed and pulled her into a tight embrace that made her want to weep again. </p><p>Aoife was fresh out of tears, but she willingly embraced him back. He smelled of salt and sea, and it felt comforting. Grounding, paradoxically. </p><p>“I am so sorry,” he said softly and kissed her crown. “Really sorry this happened to you.”</p><p>Naturally, he knew already. She did not mind that he did. She wouldn’t have been able to tell him herself. To tell anyone. </p><p>“I’m alright,” Aoife mumbled into his chest. <em> You’re disgusting.  </em></p><p>“I leave you two for one bloody month, and not only are you somehow miraculously still together,” to this, Aoife unwittingly chuckled, because the tone in which he said was now so unmistakably Ouhri the Playful, as opposed to Ouhri the Broken, “but you manage to make a world-shattering discovery in the most miserable way possible. I’m scared to leave for another month.” </p><p>“You’re not,” Aoife said, turning to lay on her back again, as Ouhri let go and propped himself on one elbow above her. “Don’t lie.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? Say it again in four weeks when I get back and you have discovered giant flying lizards exist. You know, the ones from <em> fairy tales! </em> And you discover them by, let’s say, being <b>eaten</b> by them?”</p><p>Florion lay next to them and sighed, staring at the tester. </p><p>“It’s not that we haven’t thought about it, you know. The discovery part,” he said.  </p><p>Ouhri snapped his fingers. “Yeah, what’s with that? I mean, people try and try and try and try, by this point it’s almost a competitive sport in the Pauli district of Beruza, and nothing ever happens, but you two do it once, twice, tops, and bam.”</p><p>Aoife stared up at him, eyes wide. “We did it more than twice!” </p><p>“Oh, my lady, do forgive me. Are you saying that your interactions aren’t just poetry readings, brooding and garden work?”</p><p>Florion clicked his tongue. “Ouhri, come on.” But Aoife smiled again, so he seemed to change his mind and smiled too. </p><p>Ouhri rolled his eyes. “Fine. But honestly, my question stands. What’s. With. That.”</p><p>“We don’t know,” Aoife said. “No one does.” </p><p>There was no point discussing it. Unless some amazingly talented healer or a magical wizard showed up in Rheske with all the explanations, it was meaningless to speculate. </p><p>“I know it’s probably not the best time, but we swang by Kaina and, well, I brought you gifts.”</p><p>“Best time, Ouhri,” Aoife said, sitting up. “May I see?”</p><p>“See, touch, play, whatever you wish.”</p><p>“Kaina, that’s where they grow mulberries, right?” Florion asked, as Ouhri crouched and rummaged in his massive backpack.  </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Mulberry jam is great.”</p><p>“And so it is. Here’s something for you, Aoife.” He passed her a bundle of cloth. She unwrapped what turned out to be a long, wide, purple silken scarf, gasping slightly. It was such an intricate smooth weave, with threads of silver and snow white, one she could only hope to master sometime in the distant future, if ever. The scarf was painted, too, in tiny treble clefs among the hem. </p><p>“They’re really big on weaving all sorts of things there,” Ouhri explained. </p><p>The scarf was wrapped around a sturdy wooden box which held a set of strings, made from what appeared to be silk and powdered silver. She’d only read about these. By the length of them, they looked like they would fit her lyre, and there’d be spares, too. </p><p>“This is beautiful, thank you!”</p><p>He smiled at her and kissed the tips of her fingers as she was reaching for his face. </p><p>“Your turn, you brooding oaf.”</p><p>Florion willingly reached for his gift, although there was something peculiar in his eyes now. </p><p>His bundle was bigger and wrapped in silk too, but not a scarf, just a length of cloth, creamy beige. Inside there was another wooden box, and Florion peeked into it briefly before decisively shutting it.  </p><p>“Ouhri. This isn’t food either.”</p><p>“No. It really isn’t.”</p><p>Aoife looked from one man to the other, weak, too tired to think properly, barely registering the tension that suddenly filled the room as they both froze and locked eyes, and not understanding it at all. Did Florion crave mulberry jam that much? </p><p>“Ouhri...” </p><p>“Shut up and say that you like it.”</p><p>“I do like it.”</p><p>“Great.” Ouhri straightened up. “You both like it. Let’s go for a walk.” </p><p>Before she could attempt to move properly, Ouhri pulled her up and slung her on his shoulder belly down. This was so unexpected that she started squealing before she started struggling. <em> Or thinking. </em>Florion’s eyes caught her smile, just like his ears caught her laughter, and he laughed, too. </p><p>“Ouhri, come on!” he repeated, not meaning anything by it this time.</p><p>“Shut up, god of dads.”</p><p>Maybe she would get better, soon. <em> No, you won’t.  </em></p><p>~*~</p><p>“Later, alright?”</p><p>“I would like to discuss it now.”</p><p>Ouhri rolled his eyes. “It was bad timing and I admit it, okay? Let the thing go.”</p><p>Not typical at all. Usually he was the one begging Ouhri to let a thing go, and not the other way around. </p><p>Florion wanted to, but he was so very confused. He wanted to ask about Boaldaen, too, and if Ouhri did remember. And, if so, did he also remember the absolute shitshow of a fight they had right after… No, he would not let it go. But <em> later </em>was manageable.</p><p>“Kind of got a feeling there’s other things going on,” Ouhri said, his grey eyes narrowing in a warning. “Between the two of you.”</p><p>Were there? On the surface everything was alright. Except for this one thing. He sighed, he closed his eyes, and he let it out, because whom else would he tell it to.</p><p>“Ever since it happened… She won’t let me do… Anything. She doesn’t want to let me in. Not even my fingers, or my tongue. Barely would let me touch her. Eventually we'll talk about it and resolve it, because we do that. We talk and resolve. But I don't want to push it.”</p><p>Ouhri’s eyebrows shot up. “Although I imagine you want it resolved faster.”</p><p>“Yes. Not just because I’m blueballed.”</p><p>Ouhri shifted slightly in his seat. Florion wasn’t entirely sure that he was comfortable with hearing this, and felt slightly guilty for blurting it out. Ouhri had his own problems to deal with. His own “demons”. “Why has this happened? Scared you’d get her pregnant again?”</p><p>Fairly sure this was not the case. In fact, when they discussed the prospect of having children, now that she knew they could <em> Would He allow us </em>her eyes… lit up a bit. </p><p>“Maybe. But I think… I think it’s because she thinks I find her unattractive now.”</p><p>“And do you?”</p><p>Ridiculous question with an obvious answer. </p><p>“Fuck no, I don’t. Gods. Ouhri. Of course I don’t. My cock jumps up just from seeing her enter the room.”</p><p>“Right. Okay, I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to help you.” He’s been talking their ears off all afternoon about how grateful he was, until Aoife quietly mouthed, “But I didn’t do anything”, and Florion’s heart bled with tenderness for her, as he pulled her into an embrace. </p><p>For some reason, Ouhri stretched his back and then cracked his knuckles as if he was about to start climbing the rigging. “What does sex mean to you personally, anyway?”</p><p>“Sex,” Florion started with unwitting dreaminess in his voice, “I guess it means... A way for when people who love each other to make an additional emotional conne—”</p><p>“Nope!” Ouhri interrupted, very loudly. “Sex is something that feels good. It feels good, and there’s that, and nothing else. And it should never, ever be stale, or associated with bad things, or any of that dreadful stuff.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Florion said, rolling his eyes. “Harlot.”</p><p>“And proud. So what does she like? In bed, I mean, normally.”</p><p>“Lots of things.” Since they started, carefully, timidly on her part, she’d gotten very, very enthusiastic, and he couldn’t get enough of her enthusiasm. So far she’d welcomed absolutely everything he had to offer. <em> Until she didn't. </em></p><p>“Specifics,” Ouhri inquired, frowning. </p><p>Florion thought about it. He didn’t have to think long and hard. </p><p>“Me being rough. Praises, like being called a “good girl” or pet names. She really likes the talk, in general. Being told what she’s about to get, being asked how she feels. To be kissed when I fuck her. She likes it when I come in her mouth. For some reason, she really likes the taste of me, I guess. And, also, I think...” Florion talked for a little while longer, until Ouhri interrupted him with an angry hiss. </p><p>“Ribbons? You used goddamn ribbons?!”</p><p>“I used what was available,” Florion said, tensing. “Plus, I do admire a bit of symbolism, and the ribbon was whi—”</p><p>“No!” Ouhri smacked him lightly on top of the head with an open palm. “Bad Flor, bad, bad, very bad boy. No!”</p><p>He dodged the next blow. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Ribbons, really?” Ouhri pointed to his braid. “That thing has the roughest cotton and, probably, metal thread in it. Were you trying to lose the poor girl her limbs?”</p><p>“I was careful.”</p><p>Ouhri sniggered. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Well, what do I use then? A length of silk?” He used a silk kerchief once, and it seemed to have gone better, although he did unbind her hands quite soon because, really, having both her mouth <em> and </em>her hands in the equation felt so much sweeter than… </p><p>Ouhri snapped his fingers right above his ear, and Florion twitched. <em> Fuck, I want her so much.  </em></p><p>“Quit daydreaming. Silk is for experts. For you, there’s this.” Ouhri rummaged in his backpack and produced a large roll of cord. It was thick, but stretchy and soft looking. “But never, ever untreated jute, you hear me? Ever!”</p><p>“And you just happened to have the right rope on you.”</p><p>In lieu of a straight answer Ouhri stared at him intently, sighed, opened his backpack again and laid the following neatly on the table: a chunk of flint, a sheathed dagger, an ivory pipe, a set of navigational tools, a bag of hardtack, a waterproof box for keeping matches and an equally waterproof torch in, a signaling mirror, a whistle on a string, a portable desalter, a sewing kit, and, finally, one more roll of cord, slightly thicker and slightly rougher. </p><p>“Fair enough,” Florion muttered. He knew that Ouhri — or anyone in his place, really, — could have simply said yes, but this was much more dramatic, and Ouhri spoke dramatic fluently and readily. </p><p>He sighed again. “Alright, how tight, which knots?”</p><p>“It’d be easier to show you. In fact, I need to show you. To help.”</p><p>Florion extended his arms. “Fine then. Show me.”</p><p>“Not on you, you dimwit.”</p><p>“Well, there’s a big stuffed toy in the...”</p><p>“Flor, have you gone off your rocker?” Ouhri got up. “Come on. And if you need to piss better go do it now.”</p><p>“I’m good, thank you.” </p><p>“Splendid. And she hates humans, right?”</p><p>“Yes, most of them, but...”</p><p>Ouhri cut him off. “Alright, fair warning. Whatever happens now, don’t whip your prick out, okay?”</p><p>Confused, Florion arched an eyebrow at him. “Huh?”</p><p>“Quite literally. Don’t. You’ll probably want to right away but don’t. Don’t do anything. At least not before I signal you to.”</p><p>“Ouhri, what...”</p><p>“I have a plan. Trust me.”</p><p>“I do trust you but...”</p><p>Before he could say or ask anything else, Florion was already being dragged by the hand towards the spacious sitting room. And along the way, in the span of what must have been ten to twenty seconds, Ouhri’s plan became quite clear in his head. Florion felt a rush, because if it was what he thought it was… Might just work. </p><p>“Aoife, would you mind helping with a little demonstration?”</p><p>As she closed and put away a book and stood up from the chair by the window, Ouhri turned to him and said, as if they were continuing a debate that started elsewhere, “In front won’t work, and a knot on top won’t work because he’d easily reach it with his teeth and get away. Look,” he casually reached for Aoife’s hand, took her wrist and lifted it gently. “I mean human men probably have wrists thicker than this, but whatever. Not in front.”</p><p>He let go of her arm, not looking at her. </p><p>“So let’s say you capture only one human infiltrator… Aoife, could you sit on this one real quick? Only if you don’t mind,” he pointed to one of the armchairs that stood by the hearth. “You need to bind him and interrogate him, right? But also keep him assuredly restrained when you leave the room.” It was a chair with a short, low back, long legs and smooth armbands, unique and distinct among others. Aoife sat down, giving them a look of confusion and mild curiosity. “Thanks, love.” </p><p>She was naive and trusting, and Florion felt bad about tricking her and was already thinking if he should back down. Gods forbid this ends badly. <em> She’s got the word. </em>“Alright, so, you only have this at your disposal.” Ouhri lifted the roll of cord. “Quick, where do you start?”</p><p>“Uhm-mmm...” </p><p>“Wrists,” Aoife said all a sudden. “But not in front.”</p><p>“Good one! Never in front!” Ouhri exclaimed and went around the chair. “Could you put your arms behind the back?” And she shifted in the seat and obeyed without question, even smiling a little and looking briefly into his eyes. Florion’s breath caught. Ouhri, meanwhile, continued talking to him in a casual manner. “In the hypotheticals, a couple of others are holding him to the chair, because he’s thrashing like an elasma on a net, but we’ll skip that part. Okay, come here. You gotta pull in in the middle like, double length...”</p><p>He was pretty good with this whole charade. Almost as good as he was in the bath last month. Florion nearly shuddered at the thought of this being used for evil. And questioned if it was, right now. <em> She’s got the word. </em> But he took a few steps closer to watch and, hopefully, to learn, although the latter was pretty hard in every possible way. She looked so beautiful like this. So obedient. <em> What have you unleashed, you loveable snoring dumbwit.  </em></p><p>“The bight needs to go underneath all the wraps, like this.” </p><p>It was businesslike, thorough and accompanied by detailed explanations of appropriate knots and veins and intricacies of blood flow along her hands and arms. But at some point, when Ouhri reached her shoulders, threw a length of rope around them and pulled her back, she inhaled, closed her eyes, and bit back on another sound. It lasted for a second, but Florion noticed that her cheeks had ever so slightly changed color, too. Ouhri, most likely, noticed as well, because he lifted his head and stared at Florion intently, a question in his eyes and ever so slightly elevated eyebrows. And Florion nodded. And it was no longer businesslike. </p><p>“I think I know what you’re doing,” she whispered. </p><p>“Do you, now,” Ouhri said in quite a different tone, kneeling in front of her and threading the rope beneath the seat. </p><p>“Is this one of your games again? Like in the fields?” Her voice was shaking a little. </p><p>“It’s really not,” Ouhri replied. “Do you hate it?”</p><p>“I don’t,” she said almost inaudibly, hiding her gaze. The whole of her face was a shade redder now. Before this, Florion was already half-mast for minutes, now, though… </p><p>“May I?” Ouhri asked softly, reaching for her ankle. </p><p>She lifted her head and stared at Florion. Her eyes were… Gods, so dark. He nodded again. </p><p>“You may,” she translated. </p><p>Ouhri lifted her leg over the armband, so gently and carefully as if it was a baby bird, and proceeded to tie it, too. </p><p>“So I heard you don’t want him anymore,” he said in a whisper.</p><p>Aoife shook her head weakly. “That’s not true. I do...”</p><p>“Really? Because if you don’t want to kiss him, I will before long.”</p><p>There was something in her eyes that looked an awful lot like firm defiance. “You really think this perspective scares me, Ouhri?” </p><p>He shrugged, moving to her other leg and lifting it over the second armband, leaving her open underneath the semicircle of the sundress’s hem. “Oh, I don’t know. Something, something, jealousy, something… Not the kind of jealousy when you see someone with real nice shoes and think, damn, I better get me a pair of these exact shoes, they look comfy,” he said, meticulously tying a double sheet bend close to her right knee. “The other kind, the human kind.”</p><p>“I’m not jealous of you,” she said, defiant still, but with barely identifiable addition in. With his heart doing a quick somersault, Florion recognized it as her other voice, the aroused one, the <em> singing </em> voice.  </p><p>“Oh, you’re not?” Ouhri teased, still smirking that recognizable <em> playful </em>smirk of his. “Are you sure?”</p><p>He finished tying a somewhat loose halyard bend around her right ankle and moved an inch or two away, pushing Florion even further away, as well, with an open palm. </p><p>The end result was mesmerizing: a perfect, impeccably proportionate tangle around her, not tugging at anything, not squeezing too much anywhere, but still very much keeping her fixed in place, with legs open<em>. </em>Florion was pretty sure that his pants were about to burst, that’s how painfully tight they were. </p><p>“Quite sure.” She twitched, testing the bonds, then immediately relaxed. And her eyes, they were glistening.</p><p>“Right then. So does our human prisoner feel comfortable? May we proceed?”</p><p>Aoife exhaled a broken sigh and finally turned her head to look at Ouhri. The latter moved even closer, he was inches away from her face. <em> She’s got the word, she has to remember the word. She’d probably say it now. This is too much for her.  </em></p><p>“Yes,” she said instead. </p><p>Fuck, this was indescribably hot. Florion’s hand darted absentmindedly to his crotch to rub it and maybe do more, but he remembered what Ouhri told him. <em> Don’t whip it out, you dimwit.  </em></p><p>Ouhri, meanwhile, stood up and stretched like a cat, and took a step back seemingly to admire the result of his work, as well. </p><p>“Quite sure, are you,” he murmured, grabbing Florion by the waist and pulling him into a kiss without any further ceremony or preamble. Ouhri had a very distinct way of kissing. Open mouthed, slow, wet, and there were palms sinking into hair and, dear gods, so much tongue.</p><p>“Stay where you are,” Ouhri whispered to him when they were done. Pity, because he felt a need to sit. Or fall. </p><p>“Did this make you feel jealous?”</p><p>They both looked at Aoife. She wasn’t breathing anymore, but <em> panting </em> instead, with every visible inch of her skin <em> flushed. </em> He wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees next to her, to reach, touch her, <em> devour her.  </em></p><p>“Well? Did it?”</p><p>She breathed out a feeble, “N-no.”</p><p>“How did it make you feel, then?” The next second, Ouhri was back to crouching next to her and reaching out his hand as if to cup her face, but stopping halfway. She tried to lean into it, but the ropes held her back, naturally. “Tell me, love. How did it make you feel?” he repeated.</p><p>“It… I...” she turned away, bit her lip. She wasn’t good at this even normally, just with him, and like this… No wonder.  </p><p>“Aroused, maybe?” Ouhri offered helpfully, with a smile. <em> How the fuck can I still hear things, my heart is banging in my ears. </em>“Or maybe you want to kiss him, too?”</p><p>“Yes!” she all but cried out. </p><p>“Yes what.”</p><p>“Yes, I want to kiss him.” Her eyes were shut. He knew they were so dark under her heavy eyelids that there was barely any green left. </p><p>“M, I don’t know. We’ll shelve the kissing for now. Come on, open your eyes. Look.” She obeyed, and he nodded at Florion’s crotch. </p><p>“He’s so hard the fabric’s about to burst, but he’s not doing anything about it, why do you think that is?” </p><p><em> Because you told me not to, you beautiful bastard. </em> </p><p>“Maybe… Maybe he doesn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable.”</p><p>“And would it, if he did?”</p><p>She shook her head. </p><p>“Don’t you want to see it?” Ouhri moved closer to her and nuzzled her cheek. She gasped and didn’t move away. Florion’s cock <em> throbbed.  </em></p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Say please, love.”</p><p>“Please. Please! I want to see it. I want to…” she trailed away and bit her lip again. </p><p>“Go on, Flor, let her have a look.”</p><p>Well, it must have been the signal, because if it wasn’t, Florion didn’t care anymore. His hands were shaking slightly as he unlaced his pants, and the relief he felt once he unleashed the raging beast was <em> cosmic. </em>If only for a second. </p><p>Aoife gasped and stared at it spellbound, mouth open. </p><p>“Don’t you just feel sorry for this poor idiot?” Ouhri asked, tracing her jaw with his forefinger. “Look how much he wants you. His goddamn roof is leaking.”</p><p>Florion stepped closer. “Don’t move, Flor,” Ouhri warned him. But he was already close enough for her to see every vein on his cock; not close enough for her to reach it with her mouth. </p><p>A drop of precum was beading the tip; Aoife flicked her tongue absentmindedly and darted for it but, naturally, failed again. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, I want a taste.”</p><p>“Just one? I guess that’s allowed,” Ouhri said casually, picked the drop with his thumb <em> Oh fuck how do I still manage to stand </em> and brought it to her mouth. She sucked on it greedily, as Ouhri leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she completely <em> lost it</em>. Shaking now. </p><p>“Yes! Please, yes!” </p><p>“Fuuuuuck,” Florion groaned as Ouhri expertly squeezed under the head, milked another drop and fed it to her, thumb sliding deep into her mouth again, eyes locked with hers. </p><p>“Don’t you want him to touch you, too?”</p><p>She nodded, still sucking on his thumb. </p><p>“Then ask him. Go on, love, be a nice girl and ask him.”</p><p>Ouhri pulled his hand away, and Aoife let out a <em> guttural </em> gasp. She was so beautiful he wanted to cry, and he loved her so much. </p><p>“Please touch me. Please, I… I want your fingers… In me...”</p><p>“Dear God in the depths, that’s hot,” Ouhri mumbled all of a sudden, breaking the charade completely for a second. </p><p>Again, if he was supposed to wait for another signal, Florion didn’t care. He collapsed on his knees on the other side of her, hands fumbling for the fabric of her sundress to move it out of the way, to… She wasn’t wearing underwear. And she was so wet, he growled. Two fingers cut into her like a knife into soft butter, he turned them and curled them up, and she moaned and arched her back to meet them. <em> Feels like home.  </em></p><p>Her forehead found support against Ouhri’s. </p><p>“Doesn’t it feel good?”</p><p>Aoife let out a string of unintelligible sounds. “Come on, love, tell me, tell <em> him</em>, does it? Does it feel good?”</p><p>“Very… Good,” she managed. </p><p>“Don’t you just ache for it, Aoife? That fat cock deep inside you, stretching you?” The rest he said into her ear, and Florion didn’t hear, but <em> felt </em>her clench, and heard her keen.  </p><p>He wanted to kiss her, but he wanted to look even more. </p><p>And, also, he wanted in on this. On all of this. He didn’t feel comfortable not being in control. <em> She has the word, </em> he assured himself, weakly, and commanded, voice coming from somewhere deep within his hoarse throat, “Kiss him.” And she did, eagerly. What a sight to see. <em> Let go, sweet thing.  </em></p><p>“So beautiful, you are so beautiful, Aoife.” In response, she twitched and impaled herself on his fingers. <em> Deeper.  </em></p><p>Playing with her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin fabric of the sundress until they were hard enough to cut glass, Ouhri kissed her back, and she was fierce, and insatiable, moaning, mewling into his mouth as Florion fucked her with his fingers, while pumping his own aching, rock hard cock with his other hand, and she was close, so close, he could feel her clenching, tighter and tighter, when suddenly her eyes shot open. </p><p>Florion recognized this horrified gaze, somehow, although he did not remember seeing it before. His fingers knew instinctively what to do, withdrawing just before Aoife jerked her head back, panting, and whispered, “Snowdrops.”</p><p>“Unbind her.” Florion croaked, already getting to it first as Ouhri, lips still wet and puffy, was giving him a confused look. “Now! You're alright, Aoife, it’s over, we’re unbinding you right now, treasure. It’s alright.”</p><p>Most of the knots were surprisingly easy to untangle, just tug and you’re there; but Ouhri made quick work of the others, too. It was a really, really good rope, and he was really, really good at handling it properly.</p><p>She threw the coils off, moved her legs back together and stood up awkwardly, slowly, unsure on her feet. Florion’s heart was bleeding. </p><p>He opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it. “Everything’s good. Everything is...” she glanced briefly at Ouhri. </p><p>The latter was still kneeling next to the chair, his gaze seemed apologetic and a tad confused. “Aoife, did I...”</p><p>She interrupted him, “It’s fine. I swear. I just… Just...”</p><p>“Remembered something bad?”</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>“The shame,” Florion whispered, barely audible, but she still heard him. </p><p>She nodded, biting her lip and looking at the floor. </p><p>“I… I need to process this for a while. I’ll come find you later. Both of you.”</p><p>Florion lifted her face by the chin. “I love you,” he mouthed. </p><p>She formed the same soundless phrase with her lips and gave him a little smile. Enough for him to know that everything really was alright. That she just needed to get away from the monster, as she did multiple times before. At least that’s what he told himself.</p><p>When she left, Florion all but fell down into the nearest armchair. He still didn’t know if it was a success or a complete catastrophe. It certainly felt more like the former. Maybe he should have tried something like this sooner. But Ouhri’s boundaries were truly <em> somewhere over the horizon,</em> and his weren’t. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s all new to her.”</p><p>“Safeword?”</p><p>“Safeword.”</p><p>Ouhri was surprisingly diplomatic and understanding, and didn’t argue or ask further questions. Probably because he had other things on his mind. Like his raging boner, for once. </p><p>His best friend was a damnable horndog and, usually, it was an inconvenience, what with him being a subject to pushy strangers’ affections that he willingly returned every chance he got, to the detriment of more productive things, but right now… Right now, as it turned out, it wasn’t such a bad thing. At least Florion hoped so. </p><p>Straightening up, Ouhri whistled softly. “Whew. I think it’s about time I go visit your peer and her lovely wife. I’m pretty sure the deed itself will only take a minute.”</p><p>Florion tilted his head, smiling. “Might take even less.”</p><p>“Hey. Don’t get cocky, you brooding oaf.” Ouhri pursed his lips for a moment, dissolving the shadow of a smile. “Flor, are we good?”</p><p>“More than good.” Florion kissed his temple, thinking, in passing, how ridiculous they both looked at that moment. “Thank you. I think I’d also better go take care of...” He glanced down. “And before you ask, no, I don’t need help.”</p><p>“Then I’ll see you soon.” Ouhri winked at him. “Both of you.” </p><p>~*~</p><p>After she miscarried, at some point very soon, any semblance of rationality and logic had stopped working for her, all at once. All of a sudden, the way she saw her own body changed dramatically, as if all the progress she’d made in accepting it was gone in seconds. Neither being able to sleep, nor get out of bed, she frantically sorted through all the memories of Florion seeing her maimed back, too, and felt shame about each and every occurrence. Shame so suffocating, she wanted to stop existing altogether. </p><p>Was it shock that did this? She had no coherent explanation. No coping mechanisms for this. Stubbornly, Aoife kept on trying to sort this on her own, to fight through it, to <em> remember </em>what it felt like mere days ago, and failed time and again. As if that little part that hated her expanded without warning, and wasn’t so little anymore, instead occupying almost every available inch inside her head. What used to be a dastardly little whisper turned into a cacophony of hate. There was no smothering it, no tuning it out. When she agreed with it, when she yielded, the cacophony grew quieter, but then she couldn’t do anything at all, not even move. The only respite was music, when Aoife thought with her fingers. But she couldn’t go around plucking the strings all day. </p><p>Thoughts unrelated to her <em> disgusting </em>body flew in the background, slowly, allowing her to act normal, to maintain conversations. But barely. Her brain was very tired. Her spurting fountain of self-deprecation wasn’t. </p><p>And then <em> this </em> happened... </p><p>Alright, not quite, not <em> then.  </em></p><p>A sunny day, a warm one, with a promise of heat, so early in the season. One that called for as little clothing as possible. She couldn’t use the pretense of the scorching sun for covering her shoulders, because Florion’d made her some peculiar smelling cream that, when applied, protected her skin from sunburns for hours. She couldn’t think of donning a jacket or a robe along with a sundress, because she’d start sweating in minutes, especially if they would climb up, and then would have to take it off. So Aoife reluctantly put on the silken scarf Ouhri gave her, draping it around her shoulders and upper back. It felt pleasantly cool against her skin and, most importantly, it covered the <em> horror </em> of her body, hiding her <em> repulsiveness </em>from view.  </p><p>She did not want to think these irrational things. But even knowing they’re irrational, she couldn’t help but think them. Aoife had no idea, why. Never did and now, even less so. </p><p>It felt like drowning in darkness. </p><p>“It suits you,” Florion said. And he and Ouhri exchanged looks again. She couldn’t guess what these silent looks meant and, once again, was too tired to ruminate on them, her inner voice having decided for her, and it decided <em> He’s pretending again, they’re both pretending now</em>. </p><p>As Ouhri prattled merrily away, as Florion inserted a phrase here and there, as she remained silent, listening, or trying to, it became clear that her legs were tired, too, not for excessive use but for lack of it. She asked the men to slow down, and then asked them to take a break, and another one, and soon they seemingly decided it would be way more prudent to take turns carrying her around instead. She wanted to remind them she wasn’t helpless but, once more, was too tired to argue her case. <em> But you </em> <b> <em>are</em> </b> <em> pathetic and helpless. </em> Then they contrived this game, “Who could hold Aoife for longer on arms only”, adapting for the task a tiny hourglass that Ouhri had in his pocket for some reason<em>. </em>Ouhri was very strong, and could lift her higher. But Florion still won, because the deal was — longer, not higher. In other circumstances the game and their mocking banter during would have had her wheezing with laughter, she imagined. But Aoife couldn’t find real joy in this. It felt like there was a veil separating the real world from her eyes, her perception. She forced out a few chuckles. Her mind was somewhere else. In a very dark place. She searched and searched for a reason, and for a way out, or for a hint on where she could find the latter, and found none. Why now, what can I do, what could anyone possibly do.  </p><p><em> You shouldn’t mourn what you haven’t known. </em>And she didn’t. It wasn’t mourning for an unformed child she’d known about for a few hours. It was something else. </p><p>She wanted this, she wished for it a month ago: for a day when Ouhri would feel better, when his grief and shock would subside, when they all would take an irrelevant walk, talk of irrelevant things. And now there were certain cruel forces at play, it seemed, that plunged her into grief instead.  </p><p>He had the feather she’d given him a month ago covered in powdered silver, also in Kaina, he said, and now wore it as a brooch. <em> Given. Gift. What? Nothing matters. </em> </p><p>They came back into town and ate lunch together. The food was great. The weather was perfect. Her thoughts were dark and shapeless and suffocating. </p><p>And then all of a sudden, in the cacophony of self-deprecation, amidst all of the usual mundane thoughts, from outside the edge of her unending apathy, a different thought emerged. A memory. <em> “So, food you give to a friend.” </em>And Mahri’s pointed chin nodding in response to those words. </p><p>A while later, while the men sat in the kitchen and talked, Aoife snuck back into the bedroom and peeked at the gift Ouhri’d given to Florion. Inside the box lay what she initially thought was a silk-bound foliant. But all the pages were empty. A sketchbook, then. There was a set of pencils next to it, too. No doubt made from mulberry tree wood. Among the pencils, a drafting compass. </p><p>She settled in the sitting room alone and tried to read a random novel, but written words were getting away from her, she kept re-reading the same lines over and over, not registering a single one. Gifts. Meaning. Soon, Aoife nearly had half a mind to run and look for Mahri, and ask her, because Mahri seemed to understand the meaning behind gifts quite well. The scarf, the strings, the length of cloth, the silk-bound sketchbook, the pencils, the compass, what did they all mean? Surely, not all non-edible gifts meant sex, right? And surely, Ouhrion must have known that her feather didn’t mean that much, aside from simple affection; He saw her plucking it from between the branches of a rowan. He knew the context. <em> “But what if he did get too handsy?” </em>she remembered herself asking Florion, and his peculiar answer, too. </p><p>And then <em> this </em> happened. </p><p>Of course Florion had told him. They told each other everything, not just these two, aldamaari in general. It was as natural to them as breathing and if they could have connected their minds directly, they probably would, no holds barred. Aoife did not mind it that much anymore. At the moment, she didn’t care.</p><p>It dawned on her what they were really doing almost right away and, even in her distracted state, she did not buy into the farce for longer than a few seconds. Although initially she mistook it for just another game, like the one they played while walking outside of town. </p><p>Ouhri wasn’t as good at manipulation as he probably thought he was. Or, maybe, he didn’t have much time to think it through, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing because initially Florion looked a bit confused and disorientated, likely it was Ouhri who pulled him into this. </p><p>And then <em> this </em> happened. No, not just the act itself. The way she felt during. It was a rope, a soft one. Not a chain. And, at first, Aoife only thought of how she didn’t mind being tied up like this. Apathy, but the calm, and not the miserable kind. It all miraculously made things in her head a little bit quieter, and she liked the feeling. Then Aoife thought of how much she <em> liked </em> being tied up like this. In a long, slow, careful, <em> caring </em> process that somehow felt carnal in and of itself, even though there was no sex involved. Carnal and... affectionate. How? And done by another man, to boot, while Florion stood and watched, gaze so <b>undeniably</b> hungry. The screaming was still there, in her head, as well but this time, alongside it, was something else. Something bright and <em> enveloping. </em>Her heartbeat sped up for the first time in days, the process of breathing got suddenly easier, she could see more clearly; And the sheer realization that this was happening to her turned into a deafening blare for a moment. How was she able to muffle her shame when lately it felt like she was, head to toes, all shame, Aoife did not know. Perhaps her inner voice mistook the whole event for a hallucination or a fever dream. </p><p>Instead of remembering her past and associating with it, she felt… It felt... liberating. An absurd feeling, because they literally tied her up. But somehow, for a while, she was able to think clearly. To think things that didn’t cause her pain. Things that she wanted to be thinking. And among them, was this one: I really, really, really like sex. And this one: he seems okay with this, he really is, it’s <b>undeniable</b>. And this one, too: I want to obey, and not decide; surrender, and not fight; I want it so, so much. </p><p>It didn’t last long. The screaming won. It forced her to use the word and stop the feeling.</p><p>But it all felt much quieter now. Because <em> this </em>happened. </p><p>Now, Aoife leaned her forehead against the cold marble in the basement, pretty sure that there was steam coming off her. She didn’t know how to even begin processing <em> this</em>, feeling so overwhelmed that even her inner voice’s judgemental shrieks sounded muted again. </p><p>Is it… Was it normal? Was it — and yes, even after all this, she couldn’t help but think it — some kind of a cruel game they talked each other into playing? </p><p>An hour must have elapsed, or more. Her heart was still beating frantically, and she welcomed the sensation with open arms and held on to it. Steadying herself with effort, she went upstairs and back into the kitchen, and found them both there, conversing in hushed tones over untouched tea. </p><p>“Alright,” Aoife said, stepping through the doorway. “I think I’m ready.” She really wasn’t, but neither was she ready to stop viciously fighting her shame and self-hate. “Let’s talk about that rope.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Miscarriage, Dealing with Miscarriage, Incompetent Health Professionals, Debilitation, Hallucinations, Trauma, Depression, Body Dysmorphia, Rope Bondage, Slight Shift in Power Dynamics, Threesome — F/M/M (no penetrative sex involved), Safeword Use, Angst with a Hopeful Ending</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. The Traveler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl and Green guy seemingly break the laws of nature and nature doesn’t like it. Fuck you, nature :(<br/>*Tsundere friend has a heart of gold! Who would have thought! (everyone, actually, that’s the whole MO of tsunderes)<br/>*Yes, this is absolutely the main reason why sailors learn knots, rigging what rigging<br/>*Stop scaling the Kinsey so fast, boys, you’re confusing her!<br/>*Oh no, Karl Marx is running after me to punch me out! But what’s this? BY GOD, it’s Jeremy Bentham with a steel chair!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “All the multiple pages of this educational work are now finished, and I am taking the manuscript with me. Finally, after so many tribulations, a ship has been prepared for us. We are going back. I cannot wait to once again step onto the shores on which I have been born and raised, and to pray to Him in the candle-lit church hall of the Jackson Convent.” </em>
</p><p>“I would still like to discuss it. Now even more so than before.”</p><p>In response Ouhri tilted his head and studied Florion’s face with an intense gaze. In his thoughts Florion imagined how this conversation would have played out if it was the previous versions of them sitting here. Unchanged by the events of the last three months. Ouhri would probably say something like, <em> “You know, I used to think, if you ever did choose someone to be with, I’d start gagging. Instead… well.” </em> Then Florion would not-too-carefully inquire something like, <em> “Are you saying you want what we have?” </em> And the answer naturally would be, <em> “No, this is not what I’m saying.” </em></p><p>Then Florion’s rationality would give way to his control issues and he’d helplessly blurt out, <em> “You’re not in love with us, Ouhri. You’re in love with the idea of us, like an impressionable child.” </em> And, the very next second, Ouhri would snap at him in a familiar way, face contorted by broken rage. Clenching his fists, baring his teeth, he would say (again, again), <em> “Could you, for once, allow </em> <b> <em>me</em> </b> <em> to decide how I feel?!” </em> or, maybe, <em> “It’s because you think I’m incapable of feeling affection, is it?” </em>and then they would start arguing or, perhaps, Ouhri would run off immediately, and Florion would hurry after him, and apologize in a dozen different ways. He did not want this. He did not want any of this. Besides it wasn’t the way he felt now, at all. But he did expect a jab, an accusation or something of the sort. </p><p>Instead, miraculously, Ouhri said, in a voice so quiet that Florion barely heard, “Alright. Let’s discuss it.” And turned away. Cupping his cheek, Florion moved his face back towards himself. </p><p>As he blinked, a shade of Ouhri the Broken glimpsed through, if only for a second. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. It felt like very little of his confidence and aplomb remained from earlier today. </p><p>“What would you like to happen? What was the purpose of...” Florion trailed away. Ouhri leaned into his touch for a second and then moved back. <em> Sing me a song, write me a story, drape me in your affection. Wait-for-my-return. </em></p><p>“I’ve never actually told you, have I? Why I never come back to them right after,” Ouhri said instead of a straight answer. “Why I just get with them once or twice, and...” He made a sweeping gesture. And then flee, yes. </p><p>“No. You haven’t.” Was there anything unusual to tell? He’d always thought Ouhri was just like this. Not caring for love, maybe not even believing in it. Puerile, immature, flighty, rejecting the idea of commitment because it was a bother, wanting attention from multiple people, wanting novelty, discovery, always, all of the time. Lest he become too bored and too <em> broken.  </em></p><p>“It’s their tethers,” Ouhri said, once again not looking at him. “If I get back with them, if there is anything but sex involved, the tether gets too loud for me. It’s like punches, or needles but many at once. I cannot tolerate it for long, it’s too much. I’ve even thought of cutting back on the fix, but then other things get too…” He trailed off once more and shook his head. Yes. Too broken, too insufferable. Complete loneliness is completely deafening. “But yours isn't like that, yours is just about all I can take. And she… She feels entirely different altogether.”</p><p>“She doesn’t have a tether.”</p><p>“No, she really does,” Ouhri argued. “It’s just different. It’s not crushing. It’s soothing. Much like yours, except even quieter, milder. I guess yours is like a heavy blanket and hers is… I suppose, like a windchime, or a handful of feathers. Don’t you feel it?”</p><p>Florion was an aberration. He did not <em> feel </em>these things properly anyway, he just feebly sensed the connection was there. But Ouhri did. Ouhri could discern the links of the chain, tell them apart. Were they really hurting him so much? If so, why?  </p><p>“No, sorry, I don’t think I do. And I’m not sure what else to tell you. But I trust your feelings.”</p><p>“Your two tethers, I felt them when I fell asleep next to you last month and then again, when we went for a walk, and they felt so amazing together I wanted to crawl inside, wrap myself in them and just lay there,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. </p><p>Yes, so naturally, he made jokes about salt licks and winked at the both of them as if he had a nervous tic. Oh, Ouhri… </p><p>“I…” Florion was at a loss for words for a few moments. What Ouhri was describing sounded great, and he could see the appeal and didn’t mind trying properly, sure, but… “Ouhri, humans aren’t like this, you know? They don’t sense it. And they’re not really comfortable with having more than one partner. They have all these… Traditions, preconceived notions, like back home, and… You saw.” Did he, though? For a while it did seem like she let go, enjoyment for enjoyment’s sake, if not more. And when she kissed Ouhri, Florion nearly fainted from arousal. </p><p>“So you think she hated what we did?”</p><p>“I’m not sure what to think. We’d have to wait till she tells us outright.”</p><p>Ouhri hummed quietly, head hung low. </p><p>“Look, I just… I would like to know what it’s like. Again. To make love with affection involved. And without being overwhelmed and crushed. Maybe just to see it, witness it. And then to see where it goes. I want both of you, properly. I want all three of us, together. Just… test the waters. That’s about all there is to it, Flor.”</p><p>The same man who cheerfully told him mere hours ago that sex was only about feeling good and all but whacking him for acting emotional about the idea of it. He looked so meek now. Squeezed, hollow. Not broken, just… Yearning? Careful, tactful? Did Hel tell him something? Did Lideo? This was unlike him, at least in matters concerning relationships or, in his case, tumbles. He did not act like this when he wanted to get together with someone. He never acted vulnerable. He forged straight ahead, got what he craved, walked away.  </p><p>Just then, Aoife entered the room. Her timing was impeccable. </p><p>“Alright,” she announced, looking flushed and out of breath. “I’m ready. Let’s talk about that rope.”</p><p>“Let’s,” Florion said. He extended his hand towards her and, after some brief deliberation, she approached and took it. For a moment, he wanted to pull her onto his lap as he so often did, but thought better of it. She probably still needed space. </p><p>She sat on a chair next to him.</p><p>Ouhri stared at her, looking a little wistful and a little more vulnerable. Florion wanted to hug him. He wanted to hug them both. He remained put. </p><p>“But first,” she told Ouhri, “could you explain what your gifts meant?”</p><p>He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, throwing his head back a little, as if he was standing on a deck of his ship, inhaling the sea air. “The short version.” Ouhri did not offer the long one as an option because, Florion suspected, it would have been <em> too </em>long. “They meant that I would like in on this.” He swept his hand around, pointing to the both of them, and more, in a wide gesture. “In any capacity that would be permitted to me. And yes, I know it was bad timing, Aoife. I’m sorry.”</p><p>When her face was done fighting off the initial disbelief, she murmured, “I… Is this allowed?” And looked at Florion. She didn’t say no, she didn’t seem offended or overly shocked like she was a month ago when he brushed past the topic briefly.  </p><p>Once upon a time, when Ouhri propositioned a human girl in Iquinous, she punched him in the groin. And then her father and two brothers found him, very clearly intending to also punch him places. Back then Ouhri could still run very fast on land, and so he did, laughing out loud, and they failed to catch him, getting too tired of chasing him in the end. Watching it was fun. Many things were just pure fun back then. Because neither of them would stop and think about what they actually meant.  </p><p>Aoife wasn’t like that girl. Or like any other humans in Iquinous. Not really. “It is if you want it,” Florion told her. </p><p>“I… I will ponder on it.” She still didn’t say no, she still didn’t seem offended. Did she think it was only about sex? If so, he didn’t correct her. </p><p>But Ouhri’s features relaxed a little. “So the rope,” he reminded with a shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. </p><p>“Look, I…” She took a deep breath, too, and then blurted out, brokenly, not looking at either of them, “I can’t lie about this. I liked it. And I’m grateful for what you did. I’ve only started having sex recently and I am not ready to give it up, and you have reminded me... It’s my stupid inner voice, it keeps telling me that I’m… I know I need to fight it.”</p><p>“Oh, that bastard,” Ouhri said, chuckling bitterly. “Yes, he’s tough.”</p><p>She threw her head up to look at him and said, “What.” </p><p>Of course he had it too. How could he not. Maybe his wasn’t born of shame, but of something else entirely. Florion’s desire to immediately hug both of them grew. He still remained put. </p><p>“So does yours prefer the word “worthless” or “nuisance”?” Ouhri used air quotes, speaking matter-of-factly, as if he was discussing animals and their habits with a fellow cattle farmer. </p><p>“It prefers ‘disgusting’.”</p><p>“Last things either of you are,” Florion whispered. His hugging muscles were getting really itchy. </p><p>They both looked at him, they both smiled briefly. </p><p>“I know,” Aoife said. “In my heart I know I’m not. But… It’s hard.” She turned to face Florion. “When these thoughts gain in volume the whole of my body feels incredibly tense. And I can’t… I can’t control it.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Ouhri said. That’s what Florion suspected, too. </p><p>“So, uhm,” she started, now looking down and nervously playing with the fabric of her dress, “what else can you do with the rope?”</p><p>Ouhri’s eyes lit up. “What can’t I do. I can bind and suspend you in about a dozen ways none of which will leave a permanent mark on your skin and at least half of which will make you feel like you’re floating.”</p><p>“This sounds magical,” she said almost dreamily. </p><p>He wiggled all his fingers. “These truly are.” </p><p>Florion rolled his eyes, mostly out of habit, but he was smiling ear to ear now.  </p><p>“Would you be able to teach him?”</p><p>“Sure. He knows some of the main principles already anyway. And I can teach him the rest. But I would also like to do some of it myself. If you let me. If you both let me.”</p><p>“Precisely this is not my choice to make,” Florion said. “It’s hers.”</p><p>“I’d...” There was a drop of sweat rolling down her forehead. Florion reached and wiped it off, and she threw her head up again sharply, as if his touch was electric. And her eyes were <em> dark. </em> “I think I’d like that. If I ever figure out how to… How to shut it up. The voice. So it doesn’t force me to use the word when I don’t really want to use it.”</p><p>“We’ll figure something out. In fact, I think I have a vague idea forming just now, but it needs time,” Ouhri said cryptically. Hell, whatever he was up to, Florion was on board. As long as it made everyone involved feel better about themselves and sex. </p><p>Aoife abruptly got up, flushed and overwhelmed. “I’ll be right back,” she squealed, dashing out of the kitchen. He heard her rushing down the corridor. </p><p>“This went… alright?” </p><p>One thing was still unclear to him though. No matter how Ouhri said he felt, no matter how his experiences changed him, there was this one time when they tried and, in the end, failed, and now, more than ever, they needed to talk it out. He did say “again”, and he looked wistful. Did he only remember parts of it? Florion couldn’t take it anymore, he had to ask. “Do you remember Boaldaen after dad died? Any of it?”</p><p>Ouhri looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Of course I do. All of it. Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>“Er, because you were blind drunk.”</p><p>Ouhri shook his head, “I wasn’t. Didn’t have the time to get properly hammered that evening. I distinctly remember only taking a couple of sips of wine, and then there was that tipsy girl with you, and she propositioned me as well.”</p><p>This was weird. Florion remembered things differently. There was a girl, sure. Ouhri enthusiastically fucked her to sleep, starting way before Florion took any of his clothes off. And she had, most certainly, been drinking beforehand. But did he actually see Ouhri downing booze that evening? He could not recall it. </p><p>“Flor… It was you who was drunk.”</p><p>“No, I wasn’t.” Right? “What about our fight, do you not remember <em> that? </em>”</p><p>“Of course I do,” he repeated. “But I assumed you were simply shaken by his death and, frankly, I still was, too, so I just waited until you let it all out and...”</p><p>Sure, he was, in fact, quite shaken still, but… “Wait a second, me letting things out?! Ouhri, what? You yelled at me so loudly and for so long your throat went hoarse.”</p><p>“Now hold on, I—”</p><p>Aoife came back, her face dripping water. She sat back down and then, looking from one of them to the other, she narrowed her eyes and asked, “What were you talking about just now?”</p><p>They spoke at the same time. </p><p>“Boaldaen,” Florion said.</p><p>“Sex,” Ouhri said. </p><p>Aoife smiled. “Aren’t they one and the same?” <em> Yes, yes, </em> he thought with elation, she was smiling again, and not fake-forced-polite smile, a real one, if somewhat timid, and his heart became weightless for a second. “Was it… any <em> particular </em> Boaldaen?”</p><p>“Rope!” Florion reminded her. “Voice!” This could honestly wait. All of it could wait till she’d get better. “Idea!”</p><p>“Yes, it was,” said Ouhri. Judging by his gaze, he understood the implication. </p><p>“Actually,” she said, glancing briefly at Florion, “I’d like to know what precisely you were discussing.” </p><p>Stubborn Aoife was an unshakable force, and he did not want to invoke it. And Florion himself was now confused and curious. </p><p>“I asked him if he remembers,” Florion admitted. “Just like you suggested. He does but we remember things a little differently. No, very differently.”</p><p>“Well I already know your version, what’s his?” </p><p>“My version is,” Ouhri said, “he was very drunk, and I was very sober, and there was this girl who fell asleep after I poked her a little, and me and Flor retreated to a different room and shagged ten sweats off each other, and it was great and then, all of a sudden, he started crying, yelling and throwing things at me because, and I quote, “we can’t”, and something, something, “dad was right”, something.”</p><p>Florion sat dumbstruck, fighting not to gasp for air, nearly failing. He knew lies, and this wasn't one. Plus, Ouhri wouldn’t lie, because what was there to gain? He didn’t look like he was messing with him, either. Expression very serious, not mischievous at all, a little worried, puzzled. </p><p>So if Ouhri was being honest, how many things was he forgetting as they happened? How many things were rewritten? He did forget the hornets and the stone, after all, for years and years.  </p><p>“What is wrong with my memories?” he mumbled, exasperated. “Why are they so messed up? Aoife, I swear that’s not how I remember it, but now that I think about it, it’s all so hazy. As if a version of events was inscripted into my brain, but I can’t actually visualise it.”</p><p>She shifted in her seat, no mistrust in her expression, but anxious curiosity instead, and asked, “Remember what you said to me weeks ago? How you weren’t even realising you were losing memories, how you didn’t even think about their absence at length, for a long time, although you should have?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said. This felt so similar. “Except, I thought it only applied to winter, to dreams, and not to my regular life.”</p><p>But he forgot the stone, the hornets. Until he suddenly remembered them. How many things did Kenn steal from him? </p><p>“Was it always like this? Or just these last few years?”</p><p>Ouhri was now staring at him very intently, too, fingers tapping the table.  </p><p>“I don’t… I don’t actually know.” This was maddening. “Can I even trust myself at this point?”</p><p>Ouhri offered, “Want to go through some other events and see if they match?”</p><p>He did, but he also did not want to make this evening about him. “Sure but… We wanted to talk about you,” Florion mumbled, turning to Aoife. </p><p>“We’ve talked enough, we’ll talk more later, screw this for now, I want to know what else you’ve forgotten!” she said rapidly, her voice changed all of a sudden, climbing higher, louder, more confident than it did in days. </p><p>“Yes, me too. Ropes and ideas can wait,” agreed Ouhri. “Alright, let’s start with something simple… Uhm… The my-mother-suddenly-deciding-you’re-not-eating-enough incident.” He had a treasure trove of childhood memories in his possession, and he’d gone through some of them last month already, and back then they’d all matched with what Florion remembered. Now, however, in less than five minutes, they’ve established that Ouhri hadn’t been there for Florion’s test. “Are you kidding me, how would she let me go to Rheske with just you and your dad in the middle of a semester? I was at school, and she was checking my homework nightly!” </p><p>“What. The. Fuck.”</p><p>“You told me all about your trip when you got back.” But he did not remember retelling. He remembered Ouhri <em> being there.  </em></p><p>Aoife was looking from him to Ouhri, and back again, her face expressing a mixture of unease, puzzlement and anticipation. Not apathy, not barely hidden grief. She seemed invested, almost as invested as he was if not more. </p><p>“What about that first time I went here to dream, were you there?”</p><p>“Yes, I was on that ship you took. Serving. My first year. It brought you here and then I hopped onto… What was the name...”</p><p>“The Dove,” Florion finished for him. </p><p>“Just so. You remember the name of some random ship, but not the… God, your memory is <em> weird</em>, Flor.”</p><p>This was an understatement. </p><p>“And all our fights? When we were children?”</p><p>“Oh, those were real.”</p><p>They headed to eat supper when the clock chimed just before the Temple bell did, still talking about it all. Aoife, silent and listening, held Ouhri under the arm as Florion slowly walked in front, almost backwards, tensing, recalling, comparing. </p><p>And this continued after supper and well into the evening, until a pattern was established. It was his brightest memories, it seemed. Of things that, although barely ever monumental or grand, changed him in some way. Each time there was something slightly wrong with the way he remembered them. There wasn’t a lot. They’d counted five occurrences in total when Florion asked to shelve this whole thing to ruminate on it. </p><p>His only guess: Kenn was somehow stealing his memories even when he was awake, so when they got back and Aoife excused herself with a promise to be back as soon as possible, he, while loading flamestones into the basement boiler, asked the question he’s been aching to ask for hours. “Alright, weird one, probably, but was I ever stung? Bees, wasps, horseflies, anything of the sort?”</p><p>“No,” Ouhri said. “I don’t think so. Ants, one time.”</p><p>“Next to that grain silo, I remember.” His hand itched and ached so badly because of all the acid that he growled, almost weeping, for nearly an hour, angry and powerless to stop the feeling. </p><p>“So after hearing all this, do you have any viable theories? Health-related, maybe?”</p><p>He doubted it was health-related when it was so very clearly god-related. “I think, Kenn.”</p><p>“What about him?”</p><p>“He’s sort of… Eating bits out of me. Somehow. I think. Ouhri, I still have no idea. And, sorry. I didn’t want to make this about me, I swear.”</p><p>“And I didn’t really want to talk about the whole gift-giving thing, and yet...”</p><p>And yet. Florion pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you,” he said. </p><p>“Let’s go run a bath and this time I promise not to pretend, you oaf.”</p><p>“Let’s.”</p><p>After a while, undressing, folding his clothes and getting into the bath, Florion said, “I’ll figure the real reason out or burst trying… But I’ll start figuring it out later.”</p><p>“Sure,” Ouhri replied, discarding his own clothes and throwing them on the floor chaotically. “But if you think of something I haven’t mentioned and want to compare, let me know.”</p><p>Then Aoife came back. Ouhri’s hand froze halfway to the soap. </p><p>She just stood and looked at the two of them, her expression, for once, unreadable. But he could attempt to guess. </p><p>“Would you like to bathe alone here?” Florion asked after a while.</p><p>“No,” she said. “I really wouldn’t.” But still didn’t move or take her clothes off. </p><p>There were other rooms, smaller rooms, with privacy, and baths meant for only one or two people, they even thoroughly cleaned one not too long ago. She knew it, but didn’t go to one of those either. </p><p>Before she’d make her decision, though… </p><p>Florion turned to Ouhri. “That thing you said about not pretending again. I think you should come clean.”</p><p>“Fine,” he said, not even trying to argue. “Last month in here, I was staring. Because it was impossible not to stare.”</p><p>Aoife’s eyes shot open for a second, and then narrowed again. “Why?”</p><p>“Because you’re really pretty.” </p><p>She did not say a thing initially. Instead, reaching back, she pulled off the sundress in one swift, uninterrupted move. There was nothing underneath. Florion let out a groan. </p><p>“Really pretty,” she echoed. </p><p>“If I were to invoke my poetic side, I’d say the sight of you reminds me of the most beautiful days of the fall.” To this, Florion smiled a little, because he felt the same. “But also of a pale dawn over the calm surface of the sea, which fills one’s heart with awe and inspiration.” Aoife sighed, took a few steps towards the bath and then lowered herself into it. “But I do not have a poetic side,” Ouhri continued. A lie, of course. “So if I were to simply be honest instead, I’d say I crave to fill my mouth with your gorgeous tits, while fingering your perfect ass with abandon.” A-a-and, there he was, the Playful in all his glory again. </p><p>Aoife choked on a breath and sank a little. </p><p>“Overkill, Ouhri,” Florion said, still chuckling. </p><p>“I can hardly believe,” Aoife muttered, accepting a loofah from him, “that you and that Ouhrion I met in the Temple are the same person. It’s like there’s really two of you.”</p><p>“It’s all me.”</p><p>“How come you don’t feel shame, then? You say you’ve got that nasty inner voice I have, how does it not stop you from saying things like this? Or doing things like...” Aoife trailed off. </p><p>“Shame? Um. No, it just keeps telling me nobody loves me. I try very hard not to listen. Why shame?” he repeated. </p><p>His brow was slowly furrowing as she explained the concept to him, until he finally told her, all of a sudden, “I have an idea! Quick, say something outrageous!”</p><p>Aoife stared for a few moments. “Hm… I sometimes feel so lazy that I burn the compost instead of...”</p><p>“No!” Ouhri interrupted. “Something personal. Don’t listen to it, just say it! Come on, humans never talk about their bodily functions, say something about that!” </p><p>There was another pause. </p><p>“Don’t think about it for too long,” Florion warned, grinning. </p><p>The thought process reflected on her face, until it wasn’t: features frozen, eyes wide, as she blurted out, “E-ever since I’d eradicated the hair off my ass, my farts have gotten louder!” She shut her eyes, covered her face with both hands and mumbled, from under them, “You can laugh now.”</p><p>Neither of them did. </p><p>“Hold on, you had hair on your ass?!”</p><p>“Are they supposed to not be loud?” </p><p>Aoife lowered her palms to look at them, eyes wild and still a little horrified. “Well… Yes. I used to have hair everywhere… down there. And yes. They are. Ideally. Right?” Her gaze darted to Ouhri. “Don’t think saying things like this one would help much.”</p><p>Ouhri shrugged. </p><p>“But it could. Because there’s no shame in this, as well,” Florion answered for him. “Any of this. And the more you talk about it, the less shame you feel. Theoretically. But you already know this, Aoife. You really do.”  </p><p>She looked at him, evidently understanding what he meant, and his cock sprang back to life immediately, the raging hungry bastard. <em> In this very bath, oh gods.  </em></p><p>“So now that the concept of shame is out of the way, sort of… What about jealousy? Did that whole Boaldaen business make you feel jealous? But answer quickly. Don’t try to… anything.”</p><p>“N-no. I wish I was that girl, except I would have done my best not to fall asleep because...” She made an unintelligible mournful sound as her shame stopped her from saying the rest, and tried to cover her face with her hands again, but miraculously held them down.  </p><p>“Aoife,” Florion breathed out, dragging her wrist to his crotch. “You, saying things like this… Fuck, you just being you… How could you even think that I don’t want you...” She squeezed her palm slightly, maybe on impulse or out of habit, and he had to bite his lip. </p><p>“I don’t know. My conscious mind is a bastard,” she murmured. “Sometimes I wish there was a way to throw it out of the equation completely.”</p><p>Ouhri said, “You wish you were that girl, huh.” And then, eyes still dark, to Florion: “Do you have any Sunset sleep?” </p><p>He had a lot of stuff now, but this was an unfamiliar name. </p><p>“The what, now?”</p><p>Ouhri grinned at him, almost triumphantly. “Hold on, are you serious? There’s actually a plant I know about and you don’t?”</p><p>He felt defensive. “I probably know about it, just not under this name.”</p><p>“It’s also called tameca.”</p><p>“Tameaca divinorum,” Florion corrected him, and Ouhri predictably rolled his eyes. “Yup. It’s an insect repellent.” A repellent for ants, specifically. You’d dry it, sprinkle it as is to make the ants numb, and sweep them out, or mix it with molasses to outright kill them on the spot, once they’ve gorged on it. </p><p>“Not to humans it’s not. Care to guess what they do with it?”</p><p>He figured something that knocks out ants wouldn’t do the same for humans. And, who knows, maybe it did actually taste good in syrup. Still, judging by its poetic name and, somewhat less, by the implied context, they were ingesting it as a sleeping aid. “Do they eat it?” </p><p>“Nooo.” Ouhri’s expression was so mischievous now.</p><p>“Drink in tea? Poultice? Alcohol extract?”</p><p>“No, and no, and no.”</p><p>“Well what do they do with it, then?” </p><p>“Oh, I know!” Aoife exclaimed suddenly and dropped the loofah she’d been soaping herself with, but immediately fished it out. </p><p>Ouhri pointed a finger at her. “Don’t give him any hints!”</p><p>Florion smiled. “You’re insufferable.”</p><p>“Quick question, Flor, out of all the things you’ve seen me carrying around, which one do you think was made by a human?”</p><p>Well there definitely were no herbs in his backpack. Maybe they added it to dough or used it as a spice? Did this count as eating? “Hmm… Hardtack?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>He would have said dagger, but that dagger was absolutely, unmistakably made by an aldamaari craftsman. Maybe one in Iquinous. Maybe precisely the one who fucked him to a limp years ago. This memory, he wouldn’t have minded to turn out to be fake. </p><p>“Well surely not the whistle!” </p><p>“What’s a whistle?” Aoife asked. Ouhri sniggered, nose against his knuckles. </p><p>“Okay,” Florion said, sighing, “point taken. Do I get a third guess?” </p><p>“Sure, but you’ll still waste it.”</p><p>“No, I won’t.” Humans found uses for ivory, he remembered, most of them decorative. Naturally, they were warned that hunting is forbidden, but mammoths do die natural deaths, as well… “It’s the pipe.”</p><p>“Bullseye, you idiot. Humans smoke. Humans smoke everything, everywhere, all the time.”</p><p>Aoife nodded, beaming. “That’s true.”</p><p>“Not everywhere. Not in Iquinous.”</p><p>“The ones back home are a weird bunch. But yeah, they dry it and then smoke it.”</p><p>“Point taken,” Florion repeated, mind already at work. </p><p>“Hold on, “weird bunch”? In what way?” asked Aoife. </p><p>“They’re just… Not like other refugees I’ve met around. Very reserved, keep to themselves. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t dance, don’t… anything. I don’t know the details or the reasons.”</p><p>“Oh… So what does this thing do?”</p><p>“According to humans in Beruza it gives you nice dreams.”</p><p>“How nice?”</p><p>Ouhri winked. “Very.”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>So it was a mild hallucinogen to them, then. And Florion did have some stashed, because this house did spring up an infestation from time to time. Maybe Aoife’s shame could count as one of the ants. It sure had enough acid to make her weep. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Throughout the evening her mind kept coming back, over and over, to an aldamaari fairy tale called “Travelers in the Night''. It described two travelers, walking to their hometown from the Harvest festival. When the darkness fell, in a forest meadow, they sat and made a fire. It was a cold night, but they had flamestones aplenty, food to eat, and each other to embrace to keep warm. But what they did not know, is that there was someone else there with them, nearby. Obscured by the trees and shivering, the third traveler, a stranger, stood. He yearned to ask for a place by the fire, to talk to them and share their food. </p><p>If it was a human fairy tale, he would have either killed them to take their things, or, instead, would have frozen to death or been eaten by wild animals. Or something of the sort. It wasn’t a human one. </p><p>He made his own fire, away from them. He only had one flamestone, and it didn’t burn very bright. He did not freeze, but he didn’t feel that warm either, and the rest of the night, he’d spent in doubts and moral scruples. It was one of the most miserable nights of his life. And for years after, he kept thinking back to it and regretting his decision, and wondering. He did not know and would never know that they would have gladly given him a place by the fire, because there was more than enough. And in the morning, the two of them and him would have gone their separate ways. Maybe they would meet again one day and then he’d know right away that he can rely on them. Or, who knows, maybe they could have even become close friends. But he did not approach them, and did not ask, and this was wrong and bad, <em> my dear</em>. </p><p>In this fairy tale, neither witches nor wild animals, bandits nor monsters were the enemy. The enemy was doubt. And also, if you dig a tiny bit deeper, stubborn self-reliance. </p><p>This tale reminded her of Ouhri, too. It reminded her of a lot of things. </p><p>She brushed her teeth, put on her nightrail, came back into the bedroom, and sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Ouhri meticulously light the ivory pipe and puff out the first wisps of smoke. It didn’t smell unpleasant. Definitely not the way tobacco smelled. </p><p>Florion looked at her, a question in his eyes. </p><p>“I do want to,” she managed. He nodded. </p><p>“Wish it did anything to me,” Ouhri complained, passing her the pipe. “Sadly that’s not the case.”</p><p>Wanting and actually doing, however, were two very different things, because Aoife's never smoked anything before. Back where she was born, this was something only men were allowed to do, and here she did not feel any desire to try, because the activity felt so human. So now, upon attempting to breathe in the smoke through her throat into her lungs as instructed, she gagged and started coughing immediately, tears welling in her eyes. Ouhri took the pipe back from her, looking worrisome as she shook her head and patted her chest frantically. </p><p>“C-can’t.”</p><p>He sat next to her on the bed, as Florion remained by the window, watching them.  </p><p>“Let me try something,” Ouhri said, and his voice was soft. He pulled at the pipe once more, bent down to her face and, his free hand darting to the back of her neck, kissed her. It was so sudden that she barely had time to register its start and inhaled in surprise, which, incidentally, came in handy. He wasn’t really kissing her: just pressing. His lips were open but unmoving, as he slowly blew the warm smoke into her mouth.  </p><p>Somehow, she didn’t gag on it and willingly, almost instinctively, inhaled it all. He moved away. She wasn’t coughing. Aoife slowly exhaled through her nostrils. </p><p>“Better?”</p><p>The edges of her tension miraculously evened. It was an unusual, unexpected but a very welcome feeling. Aoife nodded. </p><p>“Flor? Care to do the second one?”</p><p>Florion smiled with the corner of his mouth. <em> Oh drat he’s so beautiful I love him so much it aches. </em>“You do it.”</p><p>And Ouhri did it again. This time she opened her mouth wider and pressed closer of her own volition. It wasn’t a real kiss but it felt even more intimate and affectionate than the actual kisses they’ve exchanged in the afternoon. She liked this so much. And she liked Florion watching. </p><p>And how he then moved closer and crouched next to them, barely blinking. And how his breathing sped up again, mouth slightly ajar. In her head it felt like thoughts were dissolving, one by one. On her neck, a noose no longer. On the tips of her fingers, an ache to touch, so she did, running them through Ouhri’s short dark hair. Felt tingly. As if his hair was merging with her fingertips as they went, and then softly letting them go after a moment.  </p><p>Ouhri did it for the third time, embracing her gently with one arm. Smoke filling her lungs, warmth filling her joints, she closed her eyes, holding onto his shoulder, and there were stars behind her eyelids, blinking to her gently, soothing. <em> I </em> <b> <em>am</em> </b> <em> floating. </em> </p><p>“Dream now,” he whispered in her ear. </p><p>There was no fourth time. </p><p>~*~</p><p>She has no perception of time, and everything is muted, calm, and her head is empty. Flowers slowly blooming at the edge of her field of vision, soft whisper of the waves in her ears. Featherlight touches on her thighs, drawing circles. </p><p>Such a sweet dream. </p><p>
  <em> You are so lovely, Aoife, my bride. And I want you. So much.  </em>
</p><p>Slowly, so very slowly her own body fades into view and then fades out again. Three steps forward, two steps back. The warmth is right behind her as she lays on her side, but in front of her, too. A sigh escapes her lips, and is caught by two fingers that carry it sideways to her cheek, and caress her face, and do not stop, as she tries to lean into the touch and, at the same time, arch her back into another. Scents, intertwining. When different fingers part her, when her love pushes inside, slowly, too, she doesn’t really know the name of the act or the feeling. She only knows it feels so good that she would gladly die while feeling it. </p><p>Relaxed, pliant and almost boneless; but he’s so hard inside of her, a searing contrast, bringing the world back into focus. And so impossibly warm in and around her. A tight grip on her thigh; Slow, dragging movement in and out, in and out, as her lips part and shiver under gentle caresses, and yet another digit slides into her mouth, and she greedily sucks on it. Cradled, lulled to pleasure. </p><p>And when she unseals her eyelids, a minute might have elapsed, or an hour. There’s faint illumination coming from somewhere, maybe from inside of her. </p><p>Ouhri’s eyes are liquid moonlight. </p><p>Such a beautiful dream. </p><p>He watches her, <em> them, </em> finger slowly pumping in and out of her mouth, <em> in unison</em>. Until he withdraws and she whimpers for it. One of his hands still cupping her cheek, another slides under his thin blanket, and there’s movement there and next, he’s making a sound she’d never heard him make before. <em> Let me see.  </em></p><p>Some of her memories come back; She doesn’t care for the others. </p><p>Maybe not a dream. </p><p>“Think you can take him deeper?” Ouhri whispers. </p><p>She remembers how to nod and does, biting her lip. Florion slides his palm down her leg, and lifts it ever so slightly, but it’s enough for him to change the angle and… “Ah,” Ouhri says with a little smile as her eyes roll and another sigh escapes her, louder this time. She reaches to pull the blanket off him and almost succeeds, and with the rest of the way he helps. <em> Let me see.  </em></p><p>Aoife likes what she sees. She likes how hard he is, how eager; hand pumping away impatiently. How beautiful and vulnerable. She wants a taste, but dares not ask. <em> Must not speak. </em>The spell will be broken if she speaks. Or so she thinks.</p><p>He looks at her and then up, and there’s a pause and a dash, and next they’re kissing fiercely right above her, breaking the rhythm, and she whimpers once more. It’s so arousing to watch them, but Aoife wants some kisses, too. When they separate, there’s a thin thread of saliva between their lips, and she tries to reach it with her tongue but fails. Head too heavy. She turns it, still lolling her tongue out, and Florion touches it with his, and teases. Next there’s fingers on her chin to turn her face back and another mouth is on hers, almost as greedy. Familiar hands on her shoulders, and she is rolled over towards Ouhri until she’s laying halfway across his chest, their mouths still open and connected, her nails digging into his skin. She’s locked in; The movement of Florion’s hips slow but unrelenting. Grinding deep into her, moaning low and sweetly above her ear.   </p><p>Exactly like a dream. </p><p>She’s enveloped, there’s so much warmth emanating from both of them. She feels desired, loved, protected, safe. But most of all, she feels… Aoife keens into the wet, warm, strangely foreign but welcome kiss, and breaks away, Ouhri’s lips immediately stretch into a smile as he studies her expression. “Good?” he whispers. </p><p>Aoife nods. <em> So good.  </em></p><p>“You haven’t sang a single song for me,” he murmurs. “I want one now. Please.” </p><p>Her own hand slides down, squeezes easily between her impossibly weightless, boneless, pliant body and the sheets, and adds friction to where she aches for it. Aoife sings, lips parted against his neck, and then sings even louder. </p><p>Ouhri comes, too, moonlight hiding behind a cloud, spraying warmth over her, them, and when he does, his moans are as soft and tender as no other part of him seems to be. Florion follows; deep, deep inside of her, a gasp and a groan, and <em> Oh I love you so much. I love you, I love you.  </em></p><p>It’s over, it’s back to the stars now. She doesn’t know which one of them gently strokes her face again and which one slides a warm wet towel across her skin. She doesn't know which one of them pulls a blanket up to cover her shoulders and which one plants a kiss on her temple. It doesn’t matter. The song is done. It’s time to leave the stage and feel relief. Aoife sleeps. </p><p>~*~</p><p>It all still felt muted and calm. No battle raging, no weapons clanking in her head, at all, for the first time in days. She relished it, but also sensed it was a fleeting feeling. And that she had to make the best of it. Even the tea she was drinking now, alone in the kitchen, all windows open into a gentle morning, was tastier than usual. It couldn’t possibly last, no matter how much she wanted it to last. </p><p>Did it really happen? Her body told her that it did, and her mind said, no, just a vivid dream, like up there, in the mountain. Except even fainter, milder. She slept through the night, untroubled, no more dreams, and woke to a horrible rattle of chaotic snoring and smiled, and then smiled again, upon turning to the other side and finding Florion sleeping with a pillow over his head. </p><p>It did happen, she realised as they came down to the kitchen, one after the other, and gave her silent kisses. It happened and it was magical. </p><p>She poured them tea and sat across from them, looking, daring. </p><p>“Sleep well?” Ouhri asked after taking a sip. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Me too,” Florion said, smiling briefly, to her and then to Ouhri: “I wish you weren’t leaving.”</p><p>But he was. </p><p>“I’ve made up my mind,” she said after they were done with their tea and almost merged with the daylight again. “I want it. That.”</p><p>Ouhri smirked. “You’ll have to be more specific.” </p><p>“Shhh!” said Florion, turning his head to him. “Come on!”</p><p>Ouhri pressed his fingers against his mouth, promising to be silent. </p><p>Aoife took a deep breath. “What I mean is… I liked it. I’d like more of it. If that’s alright,” she glanced at Florion. Despite his insistence that it was her decision to make, it wasn’t, not really. It had to come from the both of them. </p><p>“It is,” Florion said. “I’d like more of it, too. Although it will have to wait till next month.”</p><p>She prayed she wouldn’t change her mind and fall back into the pit until then.  </p><p>“Then I think we’re going to need… Like in the book. Ground rules?”</p><p>“Ground rules,” Florion agreed. The two of them never really needed any, aside from choosing a safeword, but with Ouhri, one could never know.  </p><p>They all went to dress and wash, and she recalled other terms from the book. When they gathered back in the kitchen Aoife sat across from them again, things in her head more clear now, screaming still not there. But some doubts, fast approaching. </p><p>“I’m listening,” said Ouhri. </p><p>She took a deep breath. “Please, ask before you do something you haven’t done to us before. And If you feel like being rough… Sure, but I want lots of aftercare. <em> Lots </em> of it.”</p><p>“Very well,” Ouhri replied, nodding. Then, suddenly: “What’s ‘aftercare’?” </p><p>Florion sighed, like a tired parent on the verge of giving up would, before collecting himself and explaining. </p><p>Meanwhile Aoife winced, remembering horrible things she’d overheard done and said to her mother. She did not want these thoughts now. But she had to. </p><p>“Things never to do, ever. No spitting in my face, no… um… urinating on me. No calling me names. Ever! None of the...'' She froze, rummaging through her vocabulary. There weren’t actually that many words in their language that were related to sex and, at the same time, implied something shameful, aimed at women. “Bitch” mostly meant a fertile female animal, and was a husbandry term, not a curse word. There was, she supposed, a word for “harlot”, but it was used regardless of gender and, according to the context she’d seen it in, affectionate and playful, not implying any shame, just love for very frequent sex with multiple partners. It actually fit Ouhri quite well, she thought, smiling slightly. She listed it nonetheless. Along with other aldamaari curse words she knew. The most prominent and widespread among them, incidentally, was nenionfaraul, which could only loosely be translated to her native tongue as “someone who refuses to work with no good reason behind it”. </p><p>“Not into the former. And I wouldn't call you names.” </p><p>“Good. Not only because I hate it but also because I would have judged you if it was your thing. People who do this for pleasure will never! Ever! Earn a shred of respect from me!”</p><p>Ouhri looked a bit intimidated for a second, but composed himself. Florion was smiling, and his smile was full to bursting with… pride? He quietly muttered, “That’s my girl...” under his breath. </p><p>“Talk related to the act itself, yes. I love sex. Dirty words shaming me for it, absolutely not,” Aoife concluded. </p><p>“Confused as to why anyone would do the latter but. Yes. Noted.” </p><p>“Also, no slapping my face.”</p><p>After letting out a small cough Ouhri inquired, “What about other parts of you?”  </p><p>She caught Florion’s gaze yet again and her thoughts darted to that one time when he actually did bend her over his lap and spanked her ass until it was bright pink and burning, and until she was crying, tears streaming down her face and mixing with threads of drool. He wasn’t rough enough to leave bruises, and she had a feeling that he did not care for this process as much as he did many others, or as much as she did, but it was impossible to forget. Because <em> context mattered</em>. </p><p>“Not too hard,” Aoife decided.  </p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>She thought for a few more moments. </p><p>“Yes. One.” She lowered her voice to croak, “Dooon’t ruuush.”</p><p>There was a pause, then all three of them burst into laughter. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Ouhri kissed both of them goodbye, on the lips. </p><p>Their last embrace was something of a three-strand braid. </p><p>“Please don’t overthink it,” Florion said, leaning his forehead into Ouhri’s. </p><p>“I probably still will.”</p><p>Florion wouldn’t, though. Still expecting to feel alert, alarmed, confused, he instead felt even more whole than before. Maybe he did choose them both on purpose. Maybe they were just the kind of people, only people that he could truly love and care for. <em> God of dads.  </em></p><p>“I am going to work today. Now,” Aoife said after, smiling up at him. “I think I’m ready. But I will be thinking of you. Every minute, Florion.”</p><p>And so would he, of her. And of last night. </p><p>When the day was done and they met again, they returned home to find the coil of rope laid neatly on the bedside table. They made love for hours after, the only breaks taken were to drink some water and then to wash in a lukewarm bath where barely any actual washing was done in the end; And the sheets were soaked in their combined sweat. <em> Summer’s here before its time. </em> </p><p>He was abysmal with the rope and in need of a lot of practice, so they put it away for the time being. Maybe to wait for the one who gave it to them to return and give more lessons. </p><p>By the time Aoife guided him to sit in an armchair and knelt before him by the lamplight, he’d already come inside her twice and knew next time would take a while, but she wasn’t rushing and didn’t mind. She edged him closer with her mouth for what felt like a whole honeyed hour. Alternating between sucking the gentle skin on his testicles while working him with her hand, and enveloping the head with her mouth, tongue dancing around it, and speeding up, and taking him deeper, and slowing down, and speeding up again. Loving him, worshipping him. </p><p>When Florion felt the wave coming he brought his fingers to her chin, not even pinching, simply gently holding under it, cupping her face. “So lovely,” he thought out loud and used his own right hand to bring himself up one last step, spilling slowly into her open mouth, drop by hot drop, in an orgasm so tantalizingly sweet it melted his every nerve. She kept her eyes wide open when he did this, and he managed to keep his open, too. </p><p>The horror of what happened to her, his uncertainty about the reason, and all the other lesser things, like his stolen memories, were somewhere else when the two of them were sinking into sleep, intertwined despite the heat.  </p><p>“My beautiful flower… I love you,” she whispered. They’d make it through. They’d make it no matter what. </p><p>They woke to cheers and other loud noises from outside. Florion got up, a little sore, and naked, stretching on the way, and looked out the open window so see people rushing past their house and down the streets, whooping, laughing and pointing their fingers at the sky. </p><p>Still sleepy but curious, he and Aoife ascended to the roof and looked southward. </p><p>A monstrously huge sky lantern or balloon, painted in all colors of the rainbow, was approaching Rheske by air from the south, gliding lower and lower to the ground. Squinting at it with his keen eyes, Florion thought he was just about able to see tiny figures of two people in an enormous basket the balloon held afloat, their features indiscernible from this distance. But as the balloon flew closer one of them seemingly pulled some kind of lever, and the other started waving his arm merrily at the people below. Or, maybe, at the town itself.  </p><p>Those things that’d started a while ago, Florion thought, were gaining in speed now. </p><p>But they’d make it through. No matter what. He pressed Aoife closer. </p><p>~*~</p><p>The balloon’d landed outside the city and, as most of the weavers were still sleeping at the time, they barely knew anything about it, but rumours abounded. It was unmistakably a mode of transportation, but no one knew who arrived on it or where from. Everyone, however, agreed it was a good thing, which made Aoife feel better. Surely there could be no humans on that amazing flying thing.    </p><p>On their way home they bumped into a Temple girl who was just leaving. </p><p>“A really nice man here to see you,” the girl said to her and Florion. They exchanged looks that meant too many things to count. </p><p>There was a little noise from the kitchen, and Aoife headed there, intending to immediately greet the visitor while Florion went to water the garden, on her own insistence. </p><p>The visitor sat at the lower kitchen table, and she froze upon seeing him. </p><p>It was an old man, sinewy and thin, with a fluffy crown of grey hair and strongly pronounced crow’s feet that indicated he smiled readily and often throughout his life. Smacking his lips, he was taking sips from a steaming mug, making a tiny noise of content each time.</p><p>And he was human.  </p><p>“Well hello there!” the man said cheerfully upon noticing her. “You must be Aoife.”</p><p><em> He did not call me Eve, </em>she registered vaguely. And he spoke the language of the aldamaari, too. Unlike her, without any noticeable accent. </p><p>She nodded, still too shocked to say a thing. This was the first human she saw in two years, and the sight caused her a lot of discomfort despite his friendly disposition. Her thoughts darted briefly to last month’s events. </p><p>“I hope you will forgive me for not standing up. My lower back is acting up... Oh, and for getting into your supply of tea. Sorry!”</p><p>She muttered, “It’s no trouble.” Eyes still like saucers. </p><p>Making a noise that resembled creaking of an unoiled chain, the man pulled a clean mug from the shelf under the table, poured more tea into it and pushed it gently towards her. “Please. Unless you have another place to be right now, would you care for a conversation?” Noticing her stare, he added: “I mean no harm. I swear it.”</p><p>She still was reluctant to do it, but then Aoife heard Florion approach and exhaled in relief when his shadow crossed hers in the doorway and his hand descended onto her shoulder. </p><p>“Hello,” he said to the man. “We’ve met before very briefly, have we?”</p><p>“Ah, so we did! Some eight years ago! You are called Florion Dariusfilio, a dreamer and a peer of my old friend Coris, are you not?”</p><p>“Just Florion is fine.”</p><p>Another mug was added. Another prompting gesture. </p><p>Aoife crept towards the table, not taking her eyes off of the man. He kept on smiling amiably. And, once she carefully sat down, offered her his veiny hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, my dear. I’m Ionas. But you may know me better as John the Traveler.”</p><p>What.</p><p>“John the Traveler? Wait, <em> the </em> John the Traveler?”</p><p>Oh dear. So he was alive, after all! Was he here because of her letter? It wasn’t exactly unfriendly but it wasn’t an invitation either. Suddenly, Aoife realised who must have come in that giant balloon. Could it be? </p><p>“The one and only!” he said gleefully, raising his mug in a salute. “Although no one calls me that anymore. It’s quite alright, I do prefer the name that sounds less human. Just as some others around these parts...” He smiled a wide smile, and Aoife saw that he still had all his teeth.  </p><p>She picked up the mug that he offered her earlier and took a nervous sip. The tea was stronger than she or Florion usually made it. The latter lowered himself into the chair next to her. </p><p>“It is the Traveler, yes,” he said when she looked questioningly at him. </p><p>“Forgive me but...” Aoife turned back to the old man. “This letter I sent. I needed to make sure. For quite a while I thought you were, well. Dead.”</p><p>He beamed at her again. “I got better!”</p><p>Judging by this first impression he was nothing, nothing like his notes implied him to be. </p><p>“You never told me why you thought he was dead,” Florion said. </p><p>“Because humans told me. Told everyone, in fact.” </p><p>Ionas scoffed, and Florion shook his head. “Figures.”</p><p>“Well, as you can see, I am very much alive. At least for now.”</p><p>With every passing second she liked this man more and more, and her fear all but dissipated. </p><p>“Would it be alright if I call you Ionas, too?”</p><p>“It would be most welcome! Either way, I did receive your letter, and so I came to your house to meet you, my dear and, incidentally, after inquiring about your ordeal, to ask if you would like to move to Beruza, where my family resides. But I can see now,” he glanced briefly at Florion, “that the answer would have most likely been no.” </p><p>“That is correct.”</p><p>He nodded. “Just so.”</p><p>“And… Why are you in Rheske?”</p><p>Surely she and her letter couldn’t have been the only reason. They let him in, and he was allowed in here alone… Had he been living in Beruza all this time? </p><p>“Came to visit an old friend. I am old and she is even older and, hm… This might be the last chance to see each other in this world before we depart for the next.”</p><p>Aoife shook her head weakly. “I have so many questions...”</p><p>“Then ask away, my dear, by all means!”</p><p>“Have you been living in Beruza all this time? This must be, what, nearly fifty years?”</p><p>“I was! I never leave it! Well, almost never. Beside the aforementioned reason, this little excursion was me doing a favor to my dear friend Coris. We built this balloon together.”</p><p>So it was, in fact, him.  </p><p>“But you were an explorer. They said you did nothing but travel.”</p><p>“Aaah, just so. An explorer in service of the king and god almighty, yes. Bringing their glory to every corner of the world!” He cackled merrily. “That is the official story. In truth, I traveled in search of greener pastures. For myself and those dearest to me. And I found them! Why would I leave?”</p><p>He was quite charismatic even now, and Aoife could easily see how he managed to charm the king into financing his expeditions. </p><p>“And no one ever knew?”</p><p>“I sometimes wonder about it myself. My guess would be, not for certain.”</p><p>“Sir… Ionas… But in your account you were so dismissive of the aldamaari… You yearned to get back.”</p><p>He sighed heavily. “This was what I, in actuality, wanted to talk about, as well. Although I do not often mention it, because they have their benefits, I feel compelled to say it to you, my dear: I did not write those notes.”</p><p>“Wait. Really?” Frankly, Aoife had no trouble believing this. “Who wrote them, then?”</p><p>“That would be one of my shipmates. It was his first tour on my ship and he served as an ordinary seaman. He was, incidentally, also named John. It is a common name among humans still, I gather?”</p><p>“It is.” She knew more than a few Johns. Including, unfortunately, the Priory Father, although the vile old rotter preferred to go by “Your Eminence”. “So, then… He was the one they executed?” She had to use the human word for the latter, and, when Florion shifted in his seat, explained to him: “Killed.”</p><p>“I believe so.”</p><p>Aoife pondered for a while. The man in the notes was a dull sour-face. There was not a shred of cheerfulness in him. The king at the time, who was, according to rumours, not right in the head, was known to favor those who were able to entertain him and make him laugh, or so people said. So could it really be?.. “I guess I had a preconceived notion of you based off of those notes, and it’s all wrong. Who are you, really?”</p><p>“Right now I’m a small man with a big family, living on a big farm in the outskirts of a big city. A regular old man. I would guess, your question refers to the man I was.”</p><p>She nodded. </p><p>“Right then...” He proceeded to paint a picture of an exceptional, talented and entrepreneurial young man that he used to be. “They say humility is virtue, but I was never a virtuous one.” He cackled once more, and Aoife couldn’t help but smile. Turns out, he was an able seaman by fifteen. A husband of a girl from a very wealthy family by sixteen. “Having all but snaked my way into her household,” he remarked. He became a revered courtier at the same age. “I was smooth, and polite, and handsome, and told a lot of stories, and I told them well”. A father by seventeen, and a first mate by twenty. His then captain on the Hybels perished in a storm, so he took his place and did a good enough job. “The crew, apparently, agreed with this, and I have been chosen to remain on this temporary post perpetually. I had a lot of ambition but, at the time, was quite careful about letting it show. I had a goal, and it grounded me.”  </p><p>“I see. So what really happened then? After the Hybels sank?”</p><p>“It is quite a long story,” Ionas answered after taking another careful sip. </p><p>“I’d be happy to hear it.”</p><p>“Me, too,” Florion said, adding a honey jar, spoons and some biscuits to what was already on the table.  </p><p>“Well, then.” He clapped his hands together once and then immediately reached for honey. “Let us start by saying that the other John was constantly called John the Lesser by the crew of our ship, and he hated it. He hated me, as well. Not openly, but it wasn’t hard to guess. He was, perhaps, too thick, too young and too idealistic to realise the end goal of my travels, but he could see that I was not nearly as pious as a court explorer is supposed to be. I have reason to suspect that he survived the shipwreck by using other people as lifebuoys, initially. So many good people perished, and yet he got a second chance at life… A better life. And still blew it.” Ionas shook his head and stirred his tea somewhat aggressively. “The youngest of us three, he had very few defining features aside from his hubris and fear of god. He insisted that we pray nightly, and we did, although our knees weren’t thankful and our patience was at an end quite soon. He insisted, too, over and over, that we needed to get back, although it was a bad time for crossing the ocean and there was, evidently, no ship to spare. He pestered our hosts incessantly, asking them when they would send him home. I think that was one of the first phrases he learned to pronounce coherently. An odd thing, too, because he had no family to speak of waiting for his return. No wife, no children, no siblings, no surviving parents. But always so zealous. So intolerable. So devoted. So hateful of women. Just a lonely, bitter young man, unwilling to…” Ionas stopped himself and sighed. “Forgive me. One does not speak ill of the dead. Either way, after spending over half a year in Beruza, I learned the language well enough and had, albeit not too lengthy, conversations with my hosts on how I wanted to proceed. Explaining that John the Lesser cannot be trusted, I concocted a plan, and Coris who back then was not yet a dreamer, but just a clever boy, was a part of it and served as an intermediary. So this is what we did. We sailed back to Daytona but, unlike the other John, I did not stay. We said goodbye to him, pretending we, too, were relieved to be home. At the time he was quite blinded by the rich gifts that were bestowed upon him by our hosts. We’d tried to dissuade them from giving him anything, but he overheard us and, for a while, accusations flowed. Fool! We were trying to save his life... And our hosts were so insistent, too. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”</p><p>Florion shifted uneasily in his seat. “Who says that?”</p><p>“Humans,” Ionas replied. “Humans say that, dear boy.” After sipping more tea, he continued, “So. At the time he, most likely, was too busy planning on how to spend the riches, and couldn’t wait to be rid of us. Me and my other surviving companion, Samuel, slipped back under the cover of night — we were, after all, fellow townsmen, such luck! — woke our families up and dragged them away, promising to explain everything later. Naturally, not a single word on “later” being “in open sea on a foreign ship”. We did have some altercations with our families, of course. For instance, Samuel’s grandmother put her foot down, refusing to go anywhere until we told her where the hell we’ve been, where are we taking her and, also, how is she supposed to know we’re not ghosts or demons... My eldest daughter, thirteen at the time, did not want to leave her sweetheart behind and could not be swayed no matter what I told her. So I had to gag her and drag her like a sack… Oh no-no! I am not proud of it! But leaving her behind was not an option. And she forgot all about that butcher’s boy, or whoever he was, long before arriving in Beruza. Turns out, one of the younger crewmen caught her eye. And I did not suspect a thing until so much later! Which I do not regret one bit. I was a more… traditional man back then. Either way, most of the people we held dear were so happy to see us alive and unscathed that they simply followed without question. We took them to the ship which was anchored near a desolate coast, and sailed away. For good. So, we got out. We got our families out. We mapped the way. And John… Well, some things I can only guess.”</p><p>This was such a fascinating story that Aoife found herself listening to it with her mouth slightly ajar. </p><p>“What would you guess then? I’m asking because I barely know a thing myself. The notes were kept in the library of the Jackson Convent.” At this, Ionas grimaced for a moment. “A manuscript, very old. Maybe even the very first parchment copy. It was shown to me just before I departed. I have reason to believe no other official copies survived, as John… Well, whoever wrote them, was considered a heretic and allegedly executed as one. And they then spent years rooting out the copies, again, allegedly. But they had no other source of information to give me.”</p><p>Ionas nodded and replied, “It might have been the last surviving copy, yes. Or one of the very last. But for a while they were quite common and spread like wildfire. Because, you see, only a few months later a whole shipful of humans docked in Beruza and asked to be accepted. And they were, mind you, mostly women.”</p><p>“The stolen carrack!” Aoife cried out. “So it was true. They said that John the Traveler’s companions escaped on one.”</p><p>“The details, as you can see, are all mixed up. As it so often happens. But, yes. And this is how the notes made their way back to Beruza. To me. They did some good, after all, so I don’t mind them that much, as I said... Many women who’d learned of their contents, and some men, too, mostly runaway slaves, didn’t really have to read between the lines to understand how fortunate he’d been, and how he squandered that fortune. It was a promised land. It still is. As for John...”</p><p>He shook his head and scoffed again.</p><p>“The refugees barely knew anything, aside from a widespread knowledge that the last surviving crewman of the Hybels, the author of the notes who stubbornly kept calling himself John the Traveler, was now dead. It’s nothing more than hearsay, and one has to try and fill in the blanks, but my guess would be that once word of his arrival spread, port authority, naturally, demanded that <em> I </em> attend an audience. With all the precious metals, jewels, artisanal goods and other treasures I, too, now supposedly had in my possession. Mayhaps he had gone back for us, to see how much we’ve gotten and to divide the spoils before we pay any tax, the king’s due, but found our houses empty. Mayhaps the soldiers came to find them abandoned, and drew conclusions. His treasures were then confiscated, and he was imprisoned and then put to death for one reason or another. Most likely, for his newly acquired riches.”</p><p>Aoife felt a little sick. “So it was all… for money?”</p><p>“Yes. I’m afraid so.”</p><p>They both hung their heads and remained silent for a while. This was way too vivid a reminder of humans’ ways and motivations. </p><p>“Oh, but I was mentioned in those notes extensively!” Ionas exclaimed all of a sudden, his tone gleeful again. “See, I was a very curious and somewhat reckless man, so I’d constantly get into trouble. My inadvertent altercation with a cat got included! Never lived without a cat by my side after coming back, by the way. My fascination with kilts. I am wearing one right now, too! And my insistence that we do not kill their birds, as well, although I had to find a pretext that would appear reasonable to him. When, it seemed, at the time I was the only one who realised, when I accidentally killed a bee, that these wondrous people I found myself amongst do not kill their domesticated animals because they consider them parts of their families. Oh, that poor, narrow-minded man! Seeing two women living together, seeing their son calling them both mothers, and yet somehow still not understanding the nature of their relationship. No, I was, after all, unsure if I could trust him, no, both of them, at the time. They were not my friends. The shipmates I’d considered friends all perished in that storm. And while Samuel gradually revealed himself to be a good enough man, if somewhat apathetic, John was a zealot. He never changed his ways or his views. And the best thing he’d done in his life was to unwittingly spread rumours of the aldamaari having many powerful weapons. So humans would not dare attack them.”</p><p>“So then the woman… Was that you, as well?”</p><p>“Ah, yes. My “unseemly” behaviour with a woman I was smitten with.”</p><p>“Did you stay with her?” asked Aoife, smiling timidly.  </p><p>He sighed. </p><p>“No. I did not. I was a married man and, in the end, I have decided to remain with my wife, and have been loyal to her until her passing as, of course, I brought her back with me to Beruza. Besides, the woman I’ve met, she was indeed older than me, wiser and kinder, too, naturally, and soon chosen to perform an honorable and valuable service that required her to move back to her hometown. We parted on good terms and we remain friends to this day. Which, incidentally, brings us back to one of your initial questions, as I am here to see Drifeo.”</p><p>“No way!” Aoife cried out. “You and… the High Priestess? It was about her all this time, in the notes?!”</p><p>He nodded. “Small world, isn’t it? She could have found another mate in the end, her service did not require her to be celibate, as you may know, seeing as you are part of the local clergy, in a certain way. But she chose to dedicate herself to it entirely.” </p><p>“She’s been good at it,” noted Florion. “Mostly.” </p><p>“‘Mostly’!” Ionas chuckled goodnaturedly. “Oh she’s helped me so much, I could never express how grateful I am to her and Coris. Their ways and their acceptance of me shook me to my very core. They made me a new man.”</p><p>“I think I know how you feel,” Aoife said timidly and reached for Florion’s hand under the table. </p><p>“And so you do,” Ionas said, inclining his head and smiling. “I tried writing about them for a time, you know. How fascinated I am with their spirit and their ways, how free of prejudice they seem to be. But words escaped me. I loved poetry more than I did prose. So instead I wrote a song. I admit, it was a cheesy one. Very cheesy. But I found no other appropriate way to express my feelings toward them and my own fate.”</p><p>Aoife’s face was about to crack from all the smiling. “You! You wrote that song! I sang it so many times, and I have a friend who considers it her favourite!”  </p><p>Ionas, once again, inclined his head politely.</p><p>“It is quite popular in Beruza. And oh, you should come visit Beruza, nonetheless. Whenever you have time, my dear. Plenty of great humans there, I daresay, you might change your opinion of our entire race, if somewhat slightly.” </p><p>“And they are nothing like those in Iquinous? I’ve heard that Iquinous’ humans are, uhm, not that great.”</p><p>“Nothing like them. For once, they’d renounced the human god and accepted the ways of the aldamaari. But Iquinous and the nearby village established… That’s an entirely different story. The refugees there are followers of a branch of the church declared heretical by the king. They only worship the first messiah and some of his teachings, selectively. And rejecting the Book of Stars as apocryphal. They are… Not too bad. Because if you throw the Book of Stars, the Second Coming and the Monster out of the equation, a worshipper that is the end result is a reasonably conservative, ascetic and hard-working type. Something of a peaceful isolationist. No chasing material wealth. No love for war or conquest. No obligatory preaching to others, for once. No mingling and no fun, either.”  </p><p>“Sounds about right,” Florion agreed.  </p><p>Ionas nodded to him and addressed her again, “Judging by your letter, you are quite eloquent. Why don’t you write something yourself?”</p><p>“What would I write?” she asked, in not quite the same tone she’d asked the very same thing of Mahri what felt like years ago. </p><p>“Why the truth, what else! Granted, no humans across the ocean will read it anytime soon, but the future doesn’t happen in a day.”</p><p>“Maybe somed—” </p><p>They heard the front door bang and, in a few moments, another man appeared in the kitchen. Aldamaari this time but old, although springy, lithe and full of energy. </p><p>“Coris!” Florion exclaimed, jumping up and hugging him. </p><p>“Hey, kid.”</p><p>Aoife stood up, too, feeling even more excited: here was a man she’d only read about, the man who’d written the textbooks and the thesaurus she studied by, standing before her in the flesh. Coris always remained a fixture of altruism and understanding in her eyes, ever since she’d learned of his existence. And she was so very grateful to him for having helped her learn the language. </p><p>“It’s an honor to meet you,” she murmured, and he shook her hand with both of his. They were very calloused, but warm. </p><p>“Likewise,” he said. “Look, you need to go see Drifeo, now. Both of you. It’s urgent.” </p><p>Ionas scoffed. “Just as I thought. We had really good binoculars with us, you see.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Fluff, Emotional Support, Overcoming Trauma, Use of Drugs, Hallucinogens, Smoking, Shotgunning Kink, Threesome — F/M/M, Consensual Somnophilia (just a little), Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Come Eating, Spanking (mentioned), Kink Negotiation, Plot Twists, aaaand Chekhov's Epigraphs :D</p><p>Let's start shooting up this goddamn armoury, Anton Pavlovich!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. P.V Through the Grapevine/The Flight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Sober sailor bff wants to be the third wheel, but it's okay because this universe has plenty of bikes with three wheels and tattoos of flowers with thREe pETaLs. #YaoifeAndFloridaman #AndTheirBffYuri!!!OnLand<br/>*The lengths to which yours truly will go to insert shotgunning kink into a universe with no weed or cigarettes, yikes.<br/>*The supposed author of epigraphs you've skipped shows up to explain why you were maybe right to skip them.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “It barely has anything to do with pity. It is not rooted in simple concern and urge to help. Neither it may be fully defined by the capacity to vaguely grasp another person’s views, no matter how much they differ from your own. No, not only hearing their voice resonate within you, but truly listening and truly understanding. It is seeing, feeling another as you would yourself. And most importantly, it is accepting them as they are, without fear or judgement. Their pain then fully becomes yours. But so does their joy. To love and be loved, and feel loved, and help them feel loved, in return.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Herein and further:  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> excerpt from “<strong>The Greenest Pastures” by Aoife Lilyfilio, Lady of the Four Winds </strong> </em>
</p><p>“My life’s goal: getting away from the human church, and king, and law, getting my family out. My greatest fear: being discovered. This fear helped me achieve my goal.” He grasped Aoife’s hand. “Do not be ashamed of your fear. It’s helped you survive and it might help you again in the future.”</p><p>“Do you still get nightmares about them? About Daytona?...”</p><p>“No, I do not. Not anymore.”</p><p>“How many years did it take? How many years till they’ve stopped?”</p><p>“Too many.”</p><p>Too many things squeezed into too little time. But that’s alright; they were good things once again, and that’s what mattered. She’d pull through, she always did, even when she was all alone, and now, it’d be so much easier. </p><p>No trouble, never any trouble pinpointing the horrible. A lot of trouble pinpointing, safekeeping her favourite <em>happy </em>of these last two and a half days, and not only because there was so much to choose from. Last night with Florion, with a chain that’d been coiling around her, smashed to pieces. Any passing memories of it, making her go limp, and thoughts of him, making her want to weep with love so overfull it splashed up, over the edge of her heart. <em>I belong. </em>The night before that, outrageous, new, amazing. A tiny cloud of smoke punching the horrible out, giving her head time to breathe and think and sleep and remember and get out of bed the next morning. Ouhri’s hair merging with her fingertips. His idiotic, puerile behaviour, befitting a boy more than it did a grown man, and yet heartwarming. <em>I want one now. Please. </em>Him kissing Florion goodbye and her, feeling nothing but warmth as she was pulled into a kiss, as well. A tiny, broken, timid smile on his lips as he turned and looked at the two of them one last time, just before running up the gangplank. <em>You get used to it. </em>The afternoon between these two nights, a normal afternoon, with a lot of good work done and no pity being rained upon her. They read a fantasy novella about adventurous mammoth riders. It was alright. They finished it this next afternoon, in between all the gossip and speculation. Everyone lived, and the ending was spectacular, grandiose, and not making a lot of sense. Just like a rainbow-colored thing that could fly. <em>Seventeen hundred sixty miles to Beruza as the balloon flies.</em> An old man, a mirthful man, telling frightening and joyful stories in their kitchen, still being so unmistakably human. Not “thank you for your tea”, not “great tea”, — “forgive me for taking a pinch of tea without permission.” <em>That’s me, but it’s not too bad. </em>A revelation that wasn’t as horrible as she’d expect one like this to be. </p><p>Happy was what mattered. </p><p>Accepting that none of <em> that </em> was her fault, that’s what mattered.  </p><p>Not hating herself for anything was what mattered. </p><p>
  <em> You will be hidden.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Drifeo’s skin looked paper thin in the encroaching twilight and all the veins under it, even more pronounced than usual. She did not get up when they entered her office. Despite the warm day, a flamestone was crackling in the small hearth. </p><p>“Sit.”</p><p>Aoife sat. Florion remained standing, hovering over her shoulder. </p><p>“Now listen to me, child, and do not say a thing until I am done talking, I beg you. I want a chance to explain myself before you make your final decision.”</p><p>Aoife nodded solemnly. She had a vague idea where this was leading, because Ionas had already told her what he saw. There was a calm, calculated urgency in Drifeo’s voice. The High Priestess stabbed at the heart of the matter right away. And not the one Aoife was expecting.  </p><p>“The humans have neither forgotten about you nor of the task that was allegedly assigned to you. They’ve been sending letters every chance they’ve gotten. In those letters they’ve been asking how fares your quest, how many of our people have you converted, how many have resisted, what arguments they’ve made. They’ve also been asking about our defences and of the weapons we possess, and how well our children are guarded.” No pause at this horrible implication, no change of tone. “The letters were intercepted by me personally. And I used my knowledge of penmanship and human language to answer them, pretending to be you. In order: it’s faring relatively well, you have converted some and, although you have encountered some resistance, maybe, if given more time, and then some more, you would be able to establish a congregation here; Our defences are immense, and weapons deadly, and our children are very well guarded. However we are also guarded in our secrets and you’ve yet to find a good way to uncover them. I couldn’t attribute too many imaginary merits to you, as they would have suspected foul play, for you are just one girl whom they didn’t think capable of anything - and wrongfully, I must say. And thus I have played for time, and planted a myth here or there, to delay their arrival. This isn’t their priority, after all. And they are cautious when it comes to us. Now this is over and done, my dear, do tell me: do you harbor any ill feelings toward me for what I’ve done?” </p><p>For a few moments Aoife wasn’t able to speak. Her thoughts, already jittery, chaotic after talking to Ionas, now buzzed like restless insects. Before she spoke, she knew, however, that a part of her always realised the truth. The human zealots couldn’t have forgotten about her. It would have been too much to ask of them to let a woman get away from under their control. </p><p>Florion squeezed her shoulder, still standing behind her, unmoving and alert. <em> He knew</em>, Aoife realised. <em> He knew but was not allowed to tell me. </em>It explained many things. His protectiveness. His bitter smirk, his question when she’d implored him not to worry about her. </p><p>Tentatively, she began to speak, “I’ve seen many acts of kindness ever since I’d arrived here. Many of them I was fortunate to have had aimed at me. You have given me shelter, food, purpose, and your friendship. You’ve taught me and cherished me. But this one… This is the greatest, most selfless act of kindness yet. Not only have you given me life, freedom and happiness, you’ve also made it your own problem to shield me from my biggest fear. I would have expected it from my own mother if she were alive. But not…”</p><p>She couldn’t speak anymore. Tears were welling in her eyes. She didn’t know what they were signifying, exactly: immense gratitude or fear. Fear of the reason the High Priestess chose this time to tell her, of the reason behind the woman’s weary eyes. “I don’t even know why you did all of this for me.”</p><p>Florion murmured from behind her, “Because you deserve to be loved, and free, and safe.” And she reached up for his hand.  </p><p>Drifeo spoke again. “I am grateful and relieved. However...” She shook her head. “Surely you understand that I did it for our own sake, too. You see us as paragons, as blameless “saints”, I know you do, it is evident in your every action and in an almost desperate way you’re trying to blend in with us. But we are none of these things.”</p><p>So Aoife was truly an open book, then. Also, there must have been a reason this woman was the highest of the aldamaari clergy, after all. </p><p>These words reminded her of what Maeve's told her. “We’re not perfect, you know.” And how she did not want to believe it upon hearing it. Still didn’t. </p><p>Aoife said, “You are. Once one has tasted their share of bitter, one’d always know sweet.”</p><p>Drifeo didn’t argue. Not the right time to argue, perhaps. “This isn’t all I’ve been wanting to say, as you might have guessed.”</p><p>No guesses, only an eyewitness account, albeit from bird’s eye view. But they <em> had really good binoculars, you see. </em> Three human ships, all very slow and evidently heavy for the worst reasons, sailing northward, just outside of the cargo routes. And one of them, Ionas said, not only bore the flag but was also, mast to bilge, painted in the colors of the church. At best <em> real </em> missionaries, with an armored escort. At worst… She could not bear the thought. <em> “How well our children are protected.” </em>Aoife shivered. </p><p>“They still do not know we are sheltering thousands of human refugees, as they’ve presumed most of them dead or with another tribe on their continent, and they have no official means of finding out as they are not welcomed in Iquinous or anywhere south of it. That was our agreement. However. They can still check up on you. And it seems that either their curiosity is getting the better of them, or their patience has worn thin. Some human clergy has been spotted on a trade ship in Nerupin, about to head north towards us under a flag of truce.” At the latter, Aoife scoffed unwittingly. So there were more, then. A coordinated… visit? “If nothing has delayed them by this point, they will be here in less than two days.”</p><p>The fingers on her shoulder tightened. She put her palm over Florion’s, grounding herself. Grounding her horror. Would she now be offered to hide in some basement for weeks? </p><p>They exchanged a look, evidently thinking the same thing. Besides everything else, Ouhri could cross paths with them. She hoped the Butterfly would miss them, sail further from the shore, do not dock in Nerupin this time, anything. </p><p>The agreement, Aoife thought. No ships allowed to dock in Rheske. Outside the port, outside the bay to then board a boat into town that would be sent for them, or ask for repairs or freshwater — yes. Sail right into it  — no, unless there’s a special authorization. No more than three at a time. A guided, tightly controlled tour, with no human interpreter allowed, as one would be assigned to them. “We will know”. How would they know that none of that scum is one? How would they check? Would they just expect humans to be… honest?! And Drifeo did not even mention the ships Ionas saw.  </p><p>They came back for her. In her heart Aoife knew that.  </p><p>“My lady?” <em> What are you saying, what are you saying, my lady. Where do I run to? What do I do? </em></p><p>“You will be hidden,” Drifeo said. “You will leave town. You will be taken into the Valley. I will not give you to them, and neither will he.” She nodded at Florion. “There is a convoluted story I’ve concocted about you travelling south by land to preach in the villages. If need be one of my girls is well prepared to pose as one of your converts, she’d been ready for it for a long time. Your personal belongings will be transferred to a secluded cell, and everything will be made to look as if you’ve been leading an extremely hair-shirt life. It is necessary, I think, because a young unmarried woman living alone and in comfort would not sit well with humans.” </p><p>Aoife hadn’t suspected or even thought for a second that the High Priestess could know the humans so well. She also wondered who, exactly, was that girl Drifeo spoke of that had been preparing for the role of a convert, and how exactly that preparation was conceived, and how it went. Was it Maeve, perhaps? She didn’t feel angry that they’ve been hiding things from her. Quite the opposite: she felt immensely grateful for being given nearly two years in relative peace. </p><p>So much effort, so much thought going into saving just one insignificant girl, how could they not think themselves real saints? </p><p>“Travel light, take only what you need. As for you, my boy. Not only are you going with, you are to stay by her side and watch out for any sign of trouble.” Drifeo turned back to her. “You will be leaving at dawn. Someone will come and bring you back once the danger has passed. For now that is all there is. We will do our best to distract them, and many plans are underway for that. If all of this will prove insufficient, I will think of other measures. Unless, that is… Unless you are willing to face them now, my dear?”</p><p>What did that even mean?! </p><p>“No!” screamed both Aoife and Florion. He let go of her shoulder and turned, face in his hands, hissing as if in pain, teeth scraping audibly. </p><p>“Calm down, my boy. Do you not trust me?”</p><p>Maybe he did. But it wasn’t about that at all. He, nevertheless, said, “I do, my lady.”</p><p>“One more thing then. You have His permission to tell her everything.”</p><p>
  <em> “His”? </em>
</p><p>“Everything?” he echoed, perplexed.</p><p>“Yes. Lies and half-truths aren’t a good foundation to build a relationship upon.” </p><p>The relief that then reflected on his face, mixed with shock and even confusion, maybe, was palpable. </p><p>“T-thank you, my lady.”</p><p>She motioned for them to leave. “Now let’s waste no more time. Give me a hug, child, and go.”</p><p>Drifeo was so thin she felt weightless. </p><p>Right after, though, Aoife realised that the High Priestess did not mention how exactly were they supposed to leave for the Valley. On foot, perhaps? On lysseji? The latter would be problematic, as Aoife’s never ridden them. Neither did she ever ride the three-wheeled pedaled contraptions like the one Lensionas had. </p><p>“Are we going to ride there?”</p><p>“No.” Drifeo said. “You are going to fly.”</p><p>Outside the door to the High Priestess’ study Aoife reached up for Florion. </p><p>A kiss as an answer to everything. A way of grounding themselves and each other. Curbing any disagreement that might have arisen. Exchanging breath, exchanging fears and hopes, and thoughts unsaid. </p><p>For a few moments she melted into him and let herself forget the world. She could sense that he wanted to say, to explain so very many things that they were threatening to burst out of him. He didn’t say them but kissed her back. There would be time for conversations later. </p><p>For another moment she felt terrified. And then she felt nothing but resoluteness. An instinct. They would not get her. She had friends, she had someone caring for her. And if the humans did get to her, she was willing to kill rather than come with them. As for running away… It didn’t matter where she was going. What mattered was, it would be with Florion. </p><p>Pressing her close, he whispered, “I am a fool. Someone on the Indomitable might have been privy to some kind of plan, and that’s why they were so reckless. I should have let a few of them live...”</p><p>“No,” Aoife said firmly. “If anything, you should have killed them harder.” </p><p>She did not ask questions of Florion for fear his answers would rob her of sleep, and the latter she sorely needed. And Florion did not offer her a long conversation. They packed whatever they were allowed to pack and the deal was, according to Ionas, “the weight of one me and, preferably, no more than that.” Coris would be taking them. Ionas then left to spend the night elsewhere. Perhaps at the Temple. </p><p>But they did have time to talk some more before he left. He said a peculiar thing, out of the blue. One, she guessed, inspired by her short-lived pregnancy, rumours of which abounded around town. “I have discovered that we are more alike than we are different. Physiologically, for once. We have the same amount of limbs and fingers, our organs are in all the same spots. We have more in common with each other than with any other species on the planet. And our languages, too. So similar! I’ve encountered many words that match almost completely.” He giggled merrily. “Like that famous f-word, for instance, he-he. Makes you think, doesn’t it?” </p><p>It would have made her think, Aoife decided, if her fight or flight response wasn’t awakening anew just then, an intricate defense mechanism in her head that she’d long forgotten. No extra thoughts. No ruminations. Not even self-deprecation. It used to be “survive or lose yourself”. Now it was, distinctly, “flee or die.” <em> And hold on to the happy.  </em></p><p>“Some habits, symbols, legends, too. So many things!”</p><p>Ionas did not seem alarmed by the news in the slightest. In fact, he looked more relaxed than he did before and evidently yearned to continue a pleasant conversation, as if her livelihood or even life was not on the line. Perhaps he did not realise… She kept on folding her clothes. To distract him and to stop him from waxing philosophical Aoife asked a question, while Florion went into the garden to cut off either grafts or grown leaves and seed pods from the Little Guy (that was anything but little now), “Do you know if humans had contacts with aldamaari before you?”</p><p>He had so many explanations up his sleeve. Maybe he’d have one for that atlas. Not that she cared that much, but why not ask. </p><p>Ionas immediately answered, continuing his weird line of thought, “Oh, I know very little, but I do <em> think </em>we might have had the same ancestor, long ago.” </p><p><em> No, we </em> <b> <em>fucking</em> </b> <em> didn’t</em>, Aoife thought with suddenly rising anger she did not expect from her own self, but said nothing out loud, continuing to pack her bag. </p><p>~*~ </p><p>If only there was truly a benevolent, caring, loving god out there… To watch over her, over them. Maybe Florion could have asked the hornets to follow the Butterfly as well but, as little as he’d trusted Kenn in the past, now the idea seemed absolutely unacceptable. Unthinkable. </p><p>
  <em> “His permission to tell her everything.” </em>
</p><p>Florion’s bonfire grievance, miraculously lifted off his shoulders so soon. As if this time <em> someone </em> truly listened. </p><p>One last secret visit, one last half-truth before he’d stop. There were a lot of things he yearned to tell Aoife, to come clean. He already knew the one he’d start with once she was ready to talk. The problem was, Florion remained in the dark about many of them, too, and knew no more than bits and pieces about others, although he had a feeling that everything, everything he did know, could only guess, and did not know or remember at all, was interconnected. <em> Remember. </em>Maybe the truth, the entirety of it, was hidden in his stolen memories. </p><p>“Kenn.”</p><p>The apertures, readily opening. </p><p>“I am here.” </p><p>“Why did you do it to me? All of it?”</p><p>“Clarify.”</p><p>“Why did those hornets serve me when I was a kid? Why did you make me forget them after?”</p><p>Not expecting a straight answer, but still hoping for it. </p><p>“Optimization.”</p><p>Florion wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was already regretting this visit. Aoife slept, and he wanted to get back and lay next to her, and hold her, and to drift off, so why this sudden impulse to crawl here instead? Why waste precious minutes of what might well be their last night here in the foreseeable months, with windows open to sea air, on a familiar bed in a familiar room? </p><p>“Why did you steal my waking memories, too?”</p><p>“I did not steal your waking memories, too.”</p><p>Oddly enough, no longer a pause after every second word. If he was talking to a man, not a god, Florion would have thought: oh, he’s doing better. He lifted the lamp up higher, as if he was, in fact, talking to a real person in the darkness, trying to take a better look at their face. And not just standing amidst rocks and thickets, trying to hold a semblance of a conversation with a disembodied voice of a god who seemed to always be keen on avoiding straight answers.  </p><p>“Then who did?”</p><p>“I did.”</p><p>What. “You just said that you didn’t...” Florion mumbled. There was no response. </p><p>This was useless. Even more useless and frustrating than talking to Mahri had been, back when she still thought him the enemy. Mahri, at the very least, he was able to reason with. There was no reasoning with Kenn, no buttering him up, no throwing punches if need be, nothing. How do you even talk to a god properly, and why would <em> He </em> want to talk to you, to the point where he won’t let you sleep until you come see him? </p><p>Florion didn’t just want to ask things, he wanted to get answers to them. Real, clear, comprehensive answers that made sense. Why did Kenn allow the truth to be spoken just now? Why did he apparently change a few decades ago? What did Kenn want from him, specifically? Who was that weird dream man? An avatar, a godly visage, or a “messiah” as Aoife and the Traveler called them? What, what in the everliving fuck did Kenn want from her and why was he so protective, in a twisted way, willing to do terrible things to her to allegedly save her life? Why did the hornets sting those who’d been mean to her in the most general, harmless, almost childish sense? Why did they not sting humans who’ve tortured her for over a decade instead, was it the distance to blame here? Or did he simply not know? </p><p>And maybe other things, older things. Like what exactly did he do to criminals brought to him. Why were his caretakers like this, why did he have only the most apathetic, brutish, indifferent people serving him? Where did that second metal stairway, the furthest one, lead to and why was no one Florion knew allowed in there. <em> Who are my parents, where is my mother, are they alive, are they still hoping that I am.  </em></p><p>Gods are supposed to know everything and maybe they do, but no one could ever force them to answer. <em> And why are you so determined to not be considered a god?    </em></p><p>Many answers Florion could try to guess, and maybe he would have been correct. But he yearned to, for once, know for sure and not just fumble in the darkness. Not meant to be, naturally. </p><p>He also wanted to demand, to order, just like he did when he was a teenager. That would have been fruitless now. </p><p>However, the actual answers he was getting, although irritating and pointless, didn’t seem like they were doing any harm. No angry insects emerging, no lightning, no threats, and the holes were still open, as well. So he asked one more, at random. In the same tone he would have at a party, while mingling with older people. </p><p>“So do you hate humans?”</p><p>“Hate is counterproductive,” replied Kenn. </p><p>Just as he thought. Florion lowered the lamp. “And so it is… I’m leaving Rheske for Lihula tomorrow morning,” he said. “If you need me to come talk to you here, I will not be able to for a while.”</p><p>“Acknowledged.”</p><p>“Please don’t send that tiny man into my dreams. Just, please don’t do it.” </p><p>No response. He had a hunch that if push came to shove, this last plea would absolutely not be honored. </p><p>“I hope I don’t hear a single thing about you or from you till winter, Kenn. Goodbye.”</p><p>“Goodbye.”</p><p>She was awake when he came back with a faintly glowing lamp in hand. Busted. But if she asked him right now, he’d tell her the truth, all of it, everything he had in his possession, because there would be no more secrets between them. She didn’t. Aoife threw the thin sheet off her naked body and beckoned to him. Opening her legs just a little. Florion nearly tripped over his own pants when he was hastily taking them off. </p><p>“One last time for the road?” he said, and smiled, and kissed her. </p><p>With how hard he fucked her afterwards, barely letting her move, never letting her take charge or change position, one would think he was trying to break the bed, <em> for the road</em>. It even rattled mournfully at some point, but the sound was immediately drowned out by Aoife’s voice screaming out his name. <em> Thank the gods. </em>No, not the gods to thank for this. Not the gods at all. </p><p>“We’ll be alright,” Aoife told him, as if it wasn’t her that was in danger, as if it was him that needed protection. And then she asked, “What’s in the Valley?”</p><p>Florion did not know for sure, because he’d never been there, so he kissed her forehead and said, “A lot of olives, or so I hear.” </p><p>They’ll just have to wait and see how many. Together. </p><p>The day was, mercifully, only partly cloudy, but with no rain anywhere on the horizon. Someone came over while they were making the bed, took their baggage and told them to hurry up. They were also told to dress warmly, “because it’s cold up there” (oh, they knew) and so they did, with him wrapping Aoife in a woolen shawl that Ouhri’s mum once knitted. Aoife had a winter coat of her own, but it was too warm to put on now. Florion hoped they’d get back long before she would need this coat again. </p><p>Closing the door behind them, Florion took her hand. He did not look over his shoulder at the house, and neither did she. It did not matter where they were as long as they were there with each other. </p><p>Three girls came to say goodbye to her, offering her food for the road, and kisses. Mahri, who waved at him as well, with her curls waving alongside, Adronion’s granddaughter, who seemed a bit out of it and barely spoke, and the poke-and-squeeze girl. <em> Shouldn’t call her that, </em>Florion thought. For all he knew, that memory might have been false, too. </p><p>He hated this recent discovery so much for how helpless it made him feel. But he kept on continuously calming himself with a reassurance that Aoife would remember for him if he forgot again, just like she did last time. </p><p>Many other people were staring, too, from a distance, as they got into the wicker basket, and then someone was untying the ropes, these “handling lines”. Who put the metal sticks with hooks in here, when did it happen, for how long were they expecting this balloon to arrive? <em> It doesn’t matter. </em> </p><p>The Traveler was there, as well. He promised to look after their garden, if need be. “I’ll be staying in Rheske,” he’d said. “Until the time is right for me to leave.” </p><p>The principle at work was a lot like sky lanterns, according to Coris. Except much bigger. Also, the balloon had to be inflated with gas before take off and then it needed fuel to continuously maintain a heat source under it. </p><p>“Wind’s just right,” Coris told them, pulling a lever that lit a fire in the burner under the balloon. “We’re lucky.”</p><p>Was it luck, though?</p><p>“Hold on now.”</p><p>Aoife gasped as the basket slowly left the ground, and Florion, arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer. He wasn’t scared of heights, of flying, or of this peculiar hollow feeling in his gut. Because he’d lived through all of them, somehow, many times, and then forgot the details. </p><p>The balloon was rising very slowly at first, and then slightly faster, as if it was embraced by the wind and then lifted on its open palm. People cheered and waved, but then they were too far below to hear, to see their faces clearly. </p><p>“Don’t like this one bi-i-it!” Aoife squealed, clinging to him. Florion chuckled and pressed her even closer. <em> I got you.  </em></p><p>“You might feel pressure in your ears, it is normal and it will pass,” Coris said loud enough for Aoife to hear, but still in a mundane, calm tone. “This is perfectly safe as long as you do not fall off, and you won’t. We will ascend high enough to safely circle above the mountain, and then I will pull this lever right here to open the vent on top of the envelope - that is, the balloon above, - to let the gas out and to descend lower. We have fuel aplenty. We’ll be going at a hundred and forty miles per hour, on average, so we should arrive quite fast, and our landing will be smooth, as well. There is no need to worry.”</p><p>This did not help. Aoife was grasping Florion’s forearm, shaking slightly and trying not to look, and failing. The Perch was fine for her, but the Perch didn’t wiggle underfoot and didn’t move locations. </p><p>Down below, as the balloon was gracefully turning around its axis, he saw a glimpse of the caverns’ maws in between the greenery, small black holes in the side of the mountain. </p><p>Aoife kept holding on to him, face pressing into his chest, breathing heavily against it. </p><p>Florion grasped the edge of the basket to steady himself and bent low. “I got you, Aoife. I’m here, I got you.” <em> I always, always will.  </em></p><p>He knew by now she’d come around, that she only needed time. To adjust, to stubbornly fight against the current of fear, because that’s just the way she was. Until then, he’d be there, an arm around her. Nothing else to it. </p><p>As they were rising higher and Rheske was turning into a stretch of canvas below, Coris asked, “So what happened to you, kid?” </p><p>After all these years he still called him that, and Florion didn’t mind. </p><p>He offered what little explanation he had. Got held up, didn’t remember shit, woke up, decided to stay. For reasons. Mainly for one he was now embracing, but the latter, Florion did not say out loud. He thought it kind of obvious.  </p><p>“I see… I’m sorry,” Coris told him all of a sudden, “for leaving and breaking my promise. But you know how it is.”</p><p>“Don’t be. And yes, I do.” </p><p>He did know quite well how it went normally. You wake up, they drag you to the clinic, they pump you full of saline and stimulants, and you suffer through another conversation or two with the caretakers while chugging down carrot juice and groaning, and then, once you get well enough to jump up, you want nothing more than to run, to get away, out of here, fast, now. So you grab your things and do just that. Always the same feeling for each one of them not living in Rheske. As if you are being urged on out of the town by some unseen force. <em> Who knows, maybe you are. </em>Maybe it’s a family thing, maybe you miss them and just want to go home and rejoin normal people, a normal life. Or, maybe, it’s something else. The only time Florion did not feel this way was this year. But his circumstances were quite unique. </p><p>“Everything worked out in the end.”</p><p>“Good to know,” Coris said. </p><p>He didn’t ask about Aoife, neither yesterday nor today. Coris was never one to pry, he never meddled in his peers’ personal lives plus, as he was normally living in Beruza, this kind of relationship was likely nothing new to him. </p><p>But she did ask something now. Lifting her head and then coughing to clear her voice, she turned a little and addressed Coris, “Sir, if I may, what do you transform into, down there, when you dream?”</p><p>Ever a blank page, his face did not show any sign of emotion this time as well, but he did not respond immediately. Maybe he wasn’t sure he’s allowed to answer, Florion thought. Unlikely, because Coris spent quite a lot of time conversing with Drifeo last night and must have been updated on the whole situation. And, indeed, it looked like Coris was simply pondering. Or trying to recall. </p><p>“Don’t think I transform into anything. I’m just me.” The Mechanist. A fixture, Florion remembered suddenly, a figure ever pacing a seemingly endless hall of cogs, whirrs and wires. Except, it wasn’t the Coris he knew. It was a solemn young boy, features still recognizable. A fountain pen in one hand and a stack of papers pinned to a wooden board, in the other. </p><p>Not knowing if he could trust this memory, Florion let it go.   </p><p>“Excuse me,” Coris said and turned back to his contraptions. </p><p>They must have been level with the Perch now, rising higher. It was getting breezy and the air was cooling down. Aoife shifted, and Florion looked down at her. </p><p>“Are you okay?” she asked. Again, as if she hadn’t been the one to be scared of heights. </p><p>“I’m fine, treasure. Look.” She did, and whimpered. “No, not down, don’t look down. Up there.” </p><p>A flock of birds was passing by them, one even turned its head a little and glanced briefly, Florion thought. </p><p>“I bet they’re confused.” </p><p>“I would be in their place,” Aoife said, looking at them and then around, a bit more emboldened. “People, flying, who would have ever thought it possible… Hold on, you distracted me with birds again!”</p><p>He grinned. “But did it work?”</p><p>Judging by how she eased her grip on his flank and was now clinging to the side of the basket with one hand, as well, it did. Florion knew by now that he could never take too much credit, though. Distractions helped but, in the end, she did most of the work herself. </p><p>Talking got very impractical, very soon. All three of them had to wrap their heads and ears in scarves, lest the cold wind pierced them. </p><p>The peculiarity of the mountain was in full view after a while. And by peculiarity Florion mostly meant, how full of giant holes it was. He knew of one, above the greenhouse cavern, where right now, the cursed seeds he’d brought were growing into their cursed life and purpose. It wouldn’t have been possible to grow anything in there, no matter how state of the art the greenhouses were, if not for those weird blinding lights the caretakers had installed in each. Florion didn’t know where they came from, or when. They were small and flat, but seemed three times brighter than Coris’ moonlight towers, and they barely ever went out. </p><p>There was one enormous hole on this side, as well. He had no idea if there was an equally spacious pit below it, or if there were accessible passageways leading into it. He thought he saw yet another one, but it was too far to know for sure. The top of the mountain looked truncated, as if there was a plateau up top instead of a proper peak. Covered in snow, nonetheless. </p><p>Aoife was looking at it, too, he noticed. Tense and ruminative, but no longer as scared.</p><p>Coris wasn’t kidding about the pressure. Florion kept trying to relieve it, instinctively, by pinching his nose and blowing into it, but it helped very little and only for a few seconds. Soon, however, once they were high enough and far enough from the slopes to not be in danger of collision, Coris did something to stop the balloon from gaining altitude, and the unpleasant feeling gradually passed. They were flying east now. Faster, with the basket lurching ever so slightly to the side. </p><p>Coris screamed something through the wind to them after a while, pointing.</p><p>“What?” Florion yelled back, releasing one of his ears from a scarf’s soothing embrace. </p><p>“I said, there’s Lihula.” </p><p>And indeed, there it was, the breadbasket: so close, and yet hidden from view in Rheske by the Mountain Mother and its surrounding shorter neighbours. They were set to hide Aoife behind them as well, now. Maybe it did count as <em> Him </em>doing a good deed. Kenn was, perhaps, boundless but, most of the time, Florion felt like the heart of his god was concentrated inside the mountain. If he had a heart at all...</p><p>Grey ribbons of roads below, leading out of Lihula and into Rheske, with shapes of caravans scattered over them even now, and then a dip, flowing gently into endless sown fields, orchards, all stretching down into the Valley as far as the eye could see. He hoped that the poor unsuspecting caravanners wouldn’t lift their heads, lest they’d be too scared upon seeing an enormous rainbow balloon in the sky. </p><p>The Valley looked so beautiful, so colourful, even from this distance, that he couldn’t help but tap Aoife’s shoulder and point at it, as well. To his surprise, she let go of him to cling to the side with both hands and looked, too. Almost the way she did at the Perch. And he was looking only at her for a while, in the exact same way he did at the Perch. </p><p>This view, neither of them got tired of in a few minutes. </p><p>Coris took a short break to chew on something, and she bent down, awkwardly balancing and wincing, to get some food from her baggage, as well. It turned out to be a small loaf filled with cheese and greens. They shared it, eating it slowly, shielding it from the wind, and washed it down with cold tea from a flask Florion had on him.  </p><p>Neither of them wanted to sit down, although they could have if they wanted to. It wasn’t easy to breathe up here, and his head was buzzing slightly. Aoife looked paler than usual, as well, taking long pained breaths. </p><p>An hour must have elapsed, or more. Coris did not show any signs of discomfort, though. </p><p>“Descending!” he mouthed, pointing energetically down. </p><p>Florion looked at what appeared to be corn and wheat fields ahead. He thought he recognized olive trees, pomegranate and apricot groves; and tiny clouds of wooly cattle grazing on the slopes. His ears did that unpleasant thing again and didn’t stop until it became easy to discern individual houses. Some of them were crowded together, but most, wide and two-storied, stood apart, surrounded by vineyards, gardens, with a pine forest creeping down on them. A large flock of sheep, a formless white cloud, got spooked and shifted to the side, raising dust under the hooves. </p><p>He turned to face Aoife. She was crying. </p><p>“What… My love...”</p><p>“It’s so beautiful!” she said. “I’ve never seen a place this beautiful!”</p><p>Florion reached to embrace her again. It really was.  </p><p>Smudges of people below were riding to meet them atop lysseji. He wondered if they knew what they were facing, but Coris waved his arm and then made a gesture for them to stop, and they waved back. Somehow, he managed to maneuver close to a couple of solitary trees, threw out the handling lines and started yelling out instructions.   </p><p>The basket landed just outside a long stretch of a vineyard. Probably as softly as a thing so big ever could. The riders were awkwardly tying the handling lines around the trees, but Coris jumped down to help them. </p><p>“Is that,” Aoife started, gazing at one of the greeters, “a human woman?”</p><p>The others were aldamaari men. But there was a human girl indeed. Maybe Aoife’s age, maybe a bit younger. White-haired and lean, she, unlike others, stayed atop her lyssej, studying the scene carefully. Seeing Aoife, she froze, too, narrowing her eyes slightly. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I wonder how she ended up in the Valley.”</p><p>Florion smiled. “Me too. We’ll have to introduce ourselves and ask.” Aoife nudged his side. </p><p>The air smelled so different here, with no sea nearby. It was so sweet, earthy and overwhelming that Florion felt dizzy again while inhaling it. </p><p>They dragged their baggage out the basket. It wasn’t a lot, and they were done quite soon. Three men tied the bags to the saddles of their lysseji and led them away by the reins. Two other men by the trees and the human girl remained. The latter evidently waited to be approached. </p><p>Coris turned to Aoife. </p><p>“I think,” he said matter-of-factly, scratching the bridge of his nose, “Shipwright… Er, Lideo turns into a school of fish at times. And Xandrion, into a dancing mop.” </p><p>“A dancing mop,” Aoife echoed. </p><p>“Yes.” He took a sealed letter from his inner pocket and passed it to them. “Give this to the girl, I suppose. Alright then, I’d better take off before it deflates any further.”</p><p>“Thank you for getting us here,” Florion said. </p><p>“Yes. Thank you.” </p><p>“Will you be staying in Rheske as well, with the Traveler?”</p><p>Coris shook his head. “I’ll take a rest and then depart for home. They want me to haul goats on this thing, back in Beruza.”</p><p>“Goats?!”</p><p>“I don’t mind. Goats are good company.”</p><p>“What about Ionas, how is he going back? By ship?” Aoife asked, shaking his extended hand. Indeed, a journey to Beruza by land would not be advisable for a man that old. </p><p>Coris climbed back into the basket and secured the door with latches. “Nah, I don’t think he will need another ride. Alright, untie me, lads.”</p><p>When the balloon took off again they finally approached the girl who’s been staring at them intently all this time. But the letter they gave her saved them the trouble of explaining things, it seemed. Upon reading it, she finally jumped off the saddle and said, “I’m Nayiro. Granddaughter of Samuel the Snail.”</p><p>Well that explained a bit… But not all of it.  </p><p>He and Aoife exchanged a look.  </p><p>“Welcome to Lihula.”</p><p>Aoife was trying to push the lyssej’s head away. The beast seemed intent on tasting her shawl, flashing his long blue tongue. </p><p>“Ever ridden them before?” Nayiro asked her, pulling him away by the reins. </p><p>Aoife shook her head. “Never even seen one up close, to be honest.” </p><p>“Wanna try?”</p><p>Aoife looked petrified for a moment, but composed herself. </p><p>“I’d rather walk for now. If it’s not too far.”</p><p>“It’s not too far. We’ll put you in our old guesthouse. But fair warning, it’s a little, er… Anyway, it’s going to need some cleaning.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Aoife said. </p><p>And he said, “We’ll clean it to a pristine shine then.”</p><p>Florion felt regret over his promise however, quarter of an hour later. It was a two-story stone cottage that stood apart from the vineyard, near the edge of an encroaching pine forest, and on the outside it looked harmless enough. Inside, however… </p><p>“Sorry,” Nayiro said. “Short notice.”</p><p>“No notice,” Florion told her. “So don’t worry. We’ll manage. Thank you.”</p><p>Aoife looked resolute, already putting away her ever-present lyre bag and rolling up the sleeves of her undershirt. </p><p>“Water should be running. There’s some tools and buckets in the annexe. I’ll ask the boys to bring your things here, as well as some other stuff, alright? We eat at the big house in about two hours. You’ll hear the bell. We’ll talk more then.”</p><p>After this she left atop her lyssej. </p><p>Nobody’s lived in this house for very long and, evidently, left the windows open before moving. Inside everything was generously peppered with dust and dry soil and, maybe, pieces of leaves. Cobwebs hung from every surface and every corner. Sneezing, they ascended the rickety stair to the second floor or, rather, the attic. It was supposedly a bedroom, as there stood a metal carcass of a bed with no mattress on it.  </p><p>Well… They could always lay down on the grass, but he’d prefer a bed. It did not matter much, though. They were together. </p><p>And as much as he wanted to talk to her about everything, it could wait some more. </p><p>“To work?”</p><p>Aoife nodded. “To work.”   </p><p>They started with the washroom. Luckily the taps did work but, for a while, the water running from them was the colour of earth: thick, coming in spurts and smelling funny, and the pipes growled something awful. It was a while till it turned into one transparent jet. Same thing happened with the flushing.  </p><p>The men came back and dropped all the belongings the two of them brought from Rheske on the front porch. A while later they returned with a mattress, some bedding, soap and salt, a bag of flamestones for the boiler. They introduced themselves, as well. </p><p>So the essentials were dealt with fast. </p><p>Him and Aoife worked well together when it came to household chores. The dreamer house, ever the giant nightmare of dust blowing from abandoned rooms, taught them well. So when they heard the bell they already were done with the washroom and battling the attic’s numerous cobwebs. They could leave the first floor for tomorrow but the bedroom needed cleaning today. </p><p>The house could use some repairs, too, Florion noted for later. And a window was cracked. He wondered if they had a glassmith around these parts who made more than just bottles and jars, or if they needed one. </p><p>He had no idea how far they were from the nearest village. This looked to not be the latter but, instead, just a family-ran vineyard. One large table was set at the spacious veranda of the main house, surrounded by lamia bushes on all sides, and there were thirteen people sitting down to eat at that table. Fifteen now, with them. Nayiro was the only human, and they still had no explanation on how she ended up here, but she sat too far from them to ask, gobbling up food with gusto and ending up the first to rise and run off. Florion talked to everyone who addressed him, though and answered their scarce questions but they, understandably, also seemed keen on eating as fast as they could and going back to work, and work was the main thing they discussed among themselves. </p><p>One of the younger men, the one who sat to his right side, passed him a large bowl of sauteed green beans and said, “So you’re the Botanist.” Florion nodded. “Great. We might need your help with something later.”</p><p>There was probably more cheer and less rushing at supper. They’d have to wait and see. </p><p>But the food was great and Aoife, evidently hungry after the flight and the work they did, enjoyed it, too. </p><p>They walked back to their new house slowly, very full and a tiny bit languid now, hand in hand.    </p><p>“I need a break,” she admitted. </p><p>“Me, too.” </p><p>So they sat down on the overgrown grass outside the front porch. </p><p>“Want to talk?” she finally asked. “About what you… About everything.”</p><p>“About sacred oaths?” Florion kissed her crown. “Desperately.” But he didn’t even know where to begin. Florion supposed he had to start with the thing he yearned to tell her the most, and for the longest time. </p><p>“I’m sorry I’ve been putting it off. Too much… everything.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” he said, running his fingers up and down her wrist. “I’ve been aching to tell you something since that Worship day. Waiting for another few hours to say it is not a problem.” She lifted her head to look at him. And a grin blossomed on his face, and it was such a relief to say it out loud, to her. “You’re a dreamer, Aoife. Just like me. Just like Coris. And if we’re lucky, you and me, we’re not going to be separated for the winter. We’re going under together.” </p><p>Half a dozen different emotions reflected on her face in quick succession and, he wanted to believe, not a single one of them was fear. </p><p>“You… are you kidding?”</p><p>“I’m really not. I knew ever since you’ve shown me the scars on your wrist, and then Drifeo confirmed it.”</p><p>“So then… They… She… I always assumed that… Just… But I’m <b>human</b>!” This last one, she nearly shouted out. </p><p>“A human dreamer, and it’s a miracle. You’re a miracle.”</p><p>She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek, and Florion couldn’t help but lean into her touch and to close his eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t be chosen. Maybe he was wrong to give her false hope. But just the fact itself, that she was capable of it, that she was unique and closer to his people than she’d probably ever imagined, was in and of itself happy enough. Even if she would not become their new nineteenth, Aoife would no longer need to be afraid of prying guardsmen and of caretakers, she’d be able to come and visit him properly, to be with him in dreams. Maybe the latter would be even better, because then she wouldn’t forget, she would remember every single thing for him. </p><p>Florion opened his eyes to find her smiling. </p><p>“So what would I be bringing out of the dream? More plants, like you? Or just knowledge, like the others? Will there be schematics on my skin? Or will we finally get matching snowdrops?” </p><p>He froze for a moment and then started laughing. Of course she figured it out. The worst kept secret of his people. </p><p>“Music,” he said. “You will be bringing music. In your heart, in your hands, in your ears. And on your skin, as well.” Strictly speaking, he wasn’t sure of the latter. He did not know if the skin color mattered. But it felt like too sweet a moment to poison it with doubt. </p><p>Suddenly Aoife’s face fell. “What if I get turned into a clef? Or a stack of sheet music? And you, a tree. How are we going to… You know...” </p><p>Florion chuckled again. <em> I love you so much. </em>“Even if you get turned into a grand old harpsichord. We’ll make it work.”</p><p>There was a pause, because he desperately wanted to kiss her, so he did. </p><p>“This is why she wanted me to learn a new instrument!” Aoife exclaimed, pulling away. “And why you said that I don’t need to play loudly, just… play.”  </p><p>“Just so, my love.”</p><p>“There are so many things I want to ask you, flower.”</p><p>“There are so many things I want to tell you, songstress.” </p><p>“But we’ll have time later.”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>For now there were spiders in the attic, vermin in the hearth, soot and dirt in every corner, and, maybe, there was also a pressing need to tighten the bolts on that bed so it doesn’t break when they will inevitably try their best to break it. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“And so this mop shall dance no longer,” Aoife announced mournfully, holding the uneven halves in her hands. Florion straightened up, looking at her from the corner he was scrubbing.  </p><p>“I think it was older than I am.”</p><p>Aoife sighed. “I hope they have others.” </p><p>“Want me to go and ask?” </p><p>“No, I’ll go.” She needed a walk anyway, to clear her head and lungs. This house was dirty and stuffy and, despite them doing their best to rectify the fact, it continued to be an uphill battle. They washed the window in the attic, swept the floors, managed to get to scrubbing them and were on their sixth bucket of water already when this flimsy mop broke. </p><p>The weather felt milder here, less humid, so it wasn’t as hot but, with the sun still high in the sky and barely any clouds, she had to take precautions. Aoife draped Ouhri’s silk scarf over her shoulders and rubbed another generous portion of Florion’s suncream on her face. </p><p>The whole of her body ached already. The balloon, despite not being as scary at the end, took a toll on her body and nerves, and so did the hours of meticulous cleaning. And what Florion revealed to her took a toll as well, although it wasn’t painful. It would have been exhilarating if not for her exhaustion and, naturally, doubt. </p><p>She walked very slowly, as if taking a leisurely and aimless stroll. It helped that the surrounding surfaces were almost flat, unlike in Rheske where you either went downhill or climbed, most the time. </p><p>Easier not to think of big things too hard while she was working and concentrating on maintaining her resolve to finish before supper, but it’s gotten more difficult not to think now. She trusted Florion, but it was such an improbable thing he’d told her… A dreamer, truly? Just like them? Were there other human dreamers, then? And would other aldamaari ever accept her as one? She’d work double as hard if need be, of course, but would they trust her to get the job done? Would they like the songs she’d bring from her dreams?  </p><p>Aoife looked around. The forest started almost right outside the cottage they were to settle in, with the trees tall and thick but sparse, and the floor between them emerald green with moss. It looked wild, overgrown and a little bit scary. But the view in front of her was of developed land, all causeways, plowed fields and neat lines of grapevine curling around wooden sticks. Either way, it was breathtaking, and the air felt honey-sweet. There were other buildings besides the big house. Some looked like garden sheds or outhouses but one, in the distance, reminded her of an illustration she once saw in a book, of a stable. She thought she saw movement inside, through the open gates of it. So Aoife headed for that one. They had to have mops and brooms in a stable. </p><p>It smelled very distinctly of animals inside, and of hay. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. There were gated box stalls on both sides, each big enough to house one lyssej, and most of them were empty. Aoife heard a monotonous scraping noise coming from one of the furthest ones.  </p><p>“Hello. Is anyone here?” </p><p>A voice answered her from just that one, along with a lyssej sticking out his head and staring with curiosity, from the other.  </p><p>“Yeah, I’m here.”</p><p>Aoife approached and saw Nayiro in the stall with her chestnut lyssej, scraping his antlers with some kind of a pumice stone. </p><p>“What can I do for you?” Nayiro asked, not stopping for a second. </p><p>Aoife told her. </p><p>“Sure, I’ll give you one, just let me finish here. Would you mind passing me that bucket?”</p><p>Aoife did.</p><p>“Settling in, then?”</p><p>“Yes. Thank you. It’s really nice here.”</p><p>Nayiro nodded, “It really is. I love the Valley.” She put away the stone and took out a wide brush. </p><p>Aoife, no longer able to contain it, asked a question. </p><p>“If I may… Would you tell me how you ended up here?”</p><p>“Fell in love with a man and ran off with him,” Nayiro said immediately. No beating around the bush. Aoife was about to surrender to her curiosity once more and ask which of the men on this vineyard, but Nayiro added, “Then he left me. And the Valley. And I stayed.” </p><p>Aoife’s heart panged painfully. “Oh. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Then don’t be. I like it here. Much better than Beruza. Good work, good views, good food. No mum or dad around to nag me.”</p><p>“Was your grandfather against it, too?”</p><p>“Nah, grandpa was pretty nice and we got along well. But he’s dead now.”</p><p>Nayiro took the bucket and moved to the next section, which held a smaller lyssej with beige fur and long, dreamy eyelashes over pretty blue eyes. </p><p>They reminded her of Nayiro’s eyes. This girl seemed active, confident and smart. She was also very pretty. Aoife was confused. Why would a man not want her? </p><p>“You are… I think you are great,” she said tentatively. “I don’t understand why that man...”</p><p>“It’s ‘cause I don’t have a tether,” Nayiro interrupted, energetically brushing the lyssej’s flank. “He said he doesn’t feel me.”</p><p><em> Feel </em>her? </p><p>“What’s a tether?”</p><p>“What, like you don’t know?”</p><p>There were a lot of things she did not know yet. But, hopefully, was about to learn. </p><p>“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I’ve only been here for two years.”</p><p>“Oh. I was born here. Anyway, it’s like a link of a chain. Or sort of a tassel on it. But emotional. They’re all connected to this one chain. Like a goddamn hive mind.”</p><p>“Hm.” Aoife knew for sure that they were not a hive mind, because she tended to trust Florion about it. About everything. But she also remembered this phrase, “a bunch of carefree saps, all chained together”, and could not, for the life of her, pinpoint the source of it. </p><p>“But we’re not,” Nayiro said. “So be careful, alright?” </p><p>Nayiro must have had her share of Mahris and Maeves as well, warning her not to do what she ended up doing, or being protective of her. If so, no matter what happened in the end, no matter how right they were, Aoife oddly respected the fact that Nayiro didn’t listen.  </p><p>“Alright,” Aoife said to placate her. Even with what little self-confidence she had, she did not feel it’d be a good enough reason for Florion to leave her. Whatever this “chain” really was. And it’s not like her own Mahris and Maeves could have persuaded her either. </p><p>She was distracted from her thoughts by the lyssej’s warm blue tongue licking the side of her neck. He must have liked the smell of the cream. Taken by surprise, Aoife jumped up a little. “Eek!”</p><p>Nayiro chuckled and told her, “This here’s Gadar. He’s very meek. So if you decide to learn to ride, you should try him.” The conversation about men and “tethers” was evidently declared over. </p><p>“Thank you. I might try.” Aoife brushed Gadar’s bristly muzzle. He did seem meek and sweet, and not scary at all. “Would you like some help with them?”</p><p>Nayiro shook her head. “Maybe next time. Almost done now.”</p><p>Afterwards, she gave Aoife a mop and a clean rag to boot, and Aoife was about to leave when a young man entered the stables. Aoife had seen him at the dinner table but he sat too far for her to take a good look. Now she realized that he was much younger than Florion or her. He had a wreath made from colorful wildflowers in his hands and a timid smile on his lips. </p><p>“I made this for you,” he said with no preamble and attempted to place the wreath on Nayiro’s head. </p><p>She slapped his wrist away with force. “Get that fucking thing out of my face, Hadrion.” </p><p>Afterwards, Nayiro immediately left and he, after exchanging a somewhat guilty look with Aoife, walked out without saying another word. His shoulders were a bit hunched now. Aoife picked the wreath off the floor. It was really pretty and well made, intertwined stalks thick and strong. </p><p>But heartbreak was so much stronger than they were, she guessed... </p><p>Florion was lying flat among the tall grass and Aoife did not notice until his hand emerged and grabbed her by the shin, nearly tripping her. Aoife squealed in surprise, somehow remained standing, although the vertigo has been driving her insane all afternoon and, after a brief consideration, fell face down next to him. </p><p>“Taking a break?”</p><p>He let out a weak groan in response, eyes closing. </p><p>For a while, as Aoife put her head on his chest, he pretended to be a starfish.  </p><p>Then he said, “I love you.” </p><p>“I love you, too.” </p><p>“But I hate what flying does to one’s head.”</p><p>“Yes. Mine still feels like it’s stuffed with hay.”</p><p>Florion attempted to nod. “Precisely. Men should not fly.”</p><p>“Ever,” Aoife said. And then, after a pause, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him: “What is a tether? Could you explain?”</p><p>He sighed and ruffled her hair. </p><p>“It’s sort of… An emotional connection, I guess. Like links of an unseen chain. Tethers connect us to something bigger than ourselves. To a whole. And to each other.”</p><p>“Are you all born this way, with the ability to feel it?”</p><p>“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the fix.”</p><p>“The fix?”</p><p>Florion reached into his pocket and produced a lamia leaf. Except, this time, instead of chewing it as usual, he held it between two fingers in front of her face. </p><p>“This is a breath freshener,” Aoife said, confused as to why he would do it. </p><p>“It’s not.”</p><p>“It’s not?”</p><p>“Nope.” </p><p>“Then what is it?”</p><p>“It’s just… the fix,” he said in a somewhat defeated tone. “I actually don’t know where it came from, who discovered its properties, or if it’s been around forever. I only know that each and every one of us takes it. You’d grow it before you’d grow buckwheat or corn, so you’d always have plenty. You receive it with your mother’s milk. You suck on leaves once you start teething. You chew on them once you are allowed solid food. You get it with each and every meal, each and every day. Until you’re dead. It calms you, grounds you, it gives you good teeth and good health. But, first and foremost… It tethers you.”</p><p>“And it doesn’t work on humans?”</p><p>“It does not. To humans, it’s just a mild antiseptic. Or a weed.”</p><p>All these times when she’d had or witnessed conversations that were suddenly veering away from <em> perfectly pleasant </em> and someone took out a lamia leaf and ate it! Ouhri, in one of her most recent memories of such an occurrence. Maeve as well, not too long ago. All these times when she thought it was a nervous habit and, as it turns out, it was...</p><p>“Florion, is it a medicine or a <em> drug</em>?”</p><p>Some humans took a dangerous drug, tiny transparent crystals inhaled through the nose or rubbed into gums. It was outlawed under fear of death, but there were a lot of people trading in it anyway, and creating it in a long, complicated process out of some mineral. Probably. Aoife wasn’t sure. Those were reckless, cruel people. People as dangerous as the drug itself. Allegedly it made you feel elated, but then you’d get immediately and inevitably addicted to it and slowly wither away, and would not be able to stop taking it until it decomposed you from the inside. Lamia didn’t sound like it. She knew it wasn’t like it. It didn’t rot their organs, it did quite the opposite to their teeth, it did not make them lose their minds and, for instance, run around naked, screaming obscenities. But still, the concept of taking something repeatedly, all your life, something that is not a medication for a chronic illness… Such a thin line. But there was a word for “drug” in the thesaurus she studied by, after all. Did it mean the same? If only she’d known to ask Coris.  </p><p>“I don’t know. Both? Neither?”</p><p>“But what happens right after you stop taking it, <em> if </em> you stop taking it? Shaking, vomiting, pain?” That’s what’s happened to humans whose relatives dragged them to the Convent to be locked up in cells without their drug, to “purge the demon”. They’d scream in anguish and throw themselves against walls, they’d bang on the bars until their hands were bloodied, and they would sweat, and shake, and cry, and refuse to take food. Sometimes they died. Sometimes they killed themselves to stop the pain. Sometimes they lived and went back to taking the crystals upon getting better and leaving the church’s walls, and the cycle would repeat. Sometimes, miraculously, they would “go clean”. But the latter was rare. </p><p>“Nothing of the sort. Nothing horrible. No symptoms that cripple you physically. You just… stop feeling the connection. The urge to help, or to do right by the people, to work for the common good, is lessened. But also, you feel lonely. Very, very lonely. Isolated.”</p><p>A medicine was something that helped and never harmed, although it might make you feel uncomfortable for a bit, or gag. A drug was something that made you feel great, and then horrible if you stopped taking it. In regards to definitions Aoife felt puzzled. </p><p>“I see. And do you feel these “tethers” even now?”</p><p>“Not really. Because the fix, it doesn’t work properly on me. It doesn’t work properly on any dreamer I know.”</p><p>Rising further up, she sat on her knees to look at him and stroke his hair. The former, because it was easier to talk, and hear and understand like this. The latter, because she felt like it.  </p><p>“I feel… something,” he continued. “Some form of a uniting presence. Faintly, not distinctly. I just know it’s there.”</p><p>“So you feel lonely.”</p><p>He turned his head and looked at her and, suddenly, Aoife’s heart was bleeding. </p><p>“No. Not anymore.” </p><p><em> So that’s what he’d meant. Oh, my love, my love. </em>She reached for him and he pulled her back down, pressing her to his chest. “Some even go as far as to say it’s an illusion. But I actually think that the connection is really there, in all of us, in everything. Lamia just helps us feel it. Well, some of us. Some more than others. How… Why did you ask me about it now?”</p><p>She told him about Nayiro and the reason why the girl came here, while lazily playing with the buttons on his shirt. </p><p>“Ouhri would disagree,” he said all of a sudden when she was done. “He thinks humans have tethers, too. Well, you specifically. He told me he can feel it. That it’s mild, but there.” </p><p>“Really? This must be a mistake. Nayiro just told me outright that we don’t have them.” </p><p>“But how would she know? That runaway lover of hers, who’s to say he was sensitive enough to feel it? I’d rather trust Ouhri.”</p><p>Aoife touched her scarf, then draped the edge over Florion, too. </p><p>The thought of having a connection to something bigger was nice, as well as the idea that maybe it was also related to her supposedly being a dreamer. Yet the thought that all humans actually had it in secret and were, in this regard, similar to the aldamaari, was <em> revolting.  </em></p><p>But Florion rolled her over and bent down to nuzzle her neck, and his hair was ticklish, and she got tangled in it and in the scarf, as well, and started giggling, and decided not to think about humans anymore. At least for now. </p><p>“Maybe he was imagining things.”</p><p>“No, I actually think Ouhri is the opposite of me in this regard,” Florion said, rising above her a little. “He feels them too strongly, they overpower him. Like a never ending, maddening hum. I think this is also why the fix doesn’t kill his inner voice and his self-deprecation, it’s like he… swings too hard and emerges on the other side. I don’t know, I’m not as good with metaphors.”</p><p>“I think I understand what you mean. But why is he like this?”</p><p>“I don’t know that either. I think it means he’s more tender and sensitive than many others. Not just in this, in every regard.”</p><p>Aoife scoffed goodnaturedly. “He sure doesn’t act like it most of the time!” Certainly, some stories Florion told about him, and some stories Ouhri told as well, mostly from childhood, pointed to it. The way Ouhri couldn’t even force himself to eat fishes because he felt sorry for them, and all that. Some of his actions and his tears pointed to it. Still, he acted like a wild child, with so little regard for anything and anyone, really. “What did you call it? Overcompensation?”</p><p>“Yup. It’s just a defense mechanism. He’s actually really gentle at heart. Too gentle.”</p><p>“Well, his kisses are gentler than yours, I guess… But so wet and with so much tongue!” Aoife blurted out.</p><p>“Oh, way too much!” Florion agreed with a grin, looking down at her. There was a pause. She created it. His grin dissipated. </p><p>They haven’t talked about that night at length, or the preceding day. She still didn’t know what it all meant and how it could and would proceed. The “sunset sleep” — <em> was it medicine or drug? </em> — gave her some clarity and rid her of doubt for a while. But its effects were gone now. Luckily, she did not feel the slightest physical urge to smoke it again. <em> Medicine?..  </em></p><p>He guessed her thoughts. In a way. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Aside from the buzzing head and aching muscles. That voice, is it there in force again?”</p><p>“I barely think about bad things. I barely hear it, the voice. I think it’s because of all the distractions, though.” Shock, she corrected herself, not distractions. </p><p>“But it was screaming at you for what happened with Ouhri, just now, did it?”</p><p>She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. </p><p>“Hey,” Florion said, cupping her cheek and turning her head back to face him. “But did you like it?”</p><p>“I liked it,” she murmured. “A lot.”</p><p>Those sweet moans that escaped Ouhri’s lips when he came all over them still sounded like a melody in her memories. The way him and Florion kissed each other hungrily, the way watching it made her feel... And she yearned for that weirdly liberating sensation that occurred when he bound her, so much. </p><p>“Then that’s the only thing that matters. And we’ll kill that damnable voice yet.”</p><p>Aoife bit her lip for a moment. She still very much doubted just about everything. Wanting to believe that he enjoyed it as well and didn’t just do it all for her sake, she doubted it, as well. “Did <em> you </em> like it?”</p><p>He smirked, which made her realize he was remembering the details right now, with relish. “Loved it. All of it. Can’t wait till you and me team up to fuck him half to death.”</p><p>Aoife inhaled sharply. The truth was, this last one sounded <em> amazing. </em></p><p>“But… How... What is going to happen next?” </p><p>“Only whatever we wish to happen,” Florion said and kissed her.  </p><p>Another truth was, deep inside, she wished for a lot of things to happen. Sure, some of those were other walks, shared dinners and literal sleeping together, and idiotic games, and ridiculous altercations with goats and birds and rabbits. But most of them were carnal. She couldn’t even think of daring to speak of them out loud, to ask for them or about them, lest that nasty voice try and smother her, but she wanted to try, and see, and find out so many things. Page sixty-four in particular was refusing to leave her mind. </p><p>A thought occurred to her suddenly, and Aoife broke away.</p><p>“Your plant. You said it’s meant for humans and one could cure cruelty with it. And it looked a lot like a lamia bush when we left. Is it the same as lamia, but for humans?”</p><p>“Theoretically,” he admitted.</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>“Except, I think it’s meant to, um. I am not actually certain… I seem to recall learning that the initial shock of taking it, and the aftermath, would last for months before one would need an additional dosage.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”</p><p>He did not remember. </p><p>“If so, I wonder why. I still want to try it.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” </p><p>She tilted her head and looked at him, pursing her lips. </p><p>“Right, it’s in the name now. How could I forget. But Aoife,” he said, reaching down to stroke her cheek, “this is exactly what I meant by “mind-altering substance”. Lamia is, too. It’s mild and you get gradually used to it, because you literally start when you are born. But this...”</p><p>“I still want to,” she interrupted. “Please. If you knew I could take lamia, if you knew it would work on me, would you want me to?”</p><p>If anything, anything in the world could even theoretically help her get rid of that voice, she’d take it. Maybe not the crystal drug, but… Anything else. </p><p>“I… guess...” he said reluctantly. </p><p>“I like my teeth, you know.”</p><p>“I like your teeth, too. But—”</p><p>“Shush.” She yanked him down by the shirt to kiss him. </p><p>This was all very confusing and bewildering, and Aoife once again felt like she needed a break from talking about <em> secret things </em>she was now allowed to be privy to. A thousand questions, but she needed to take the answers one at a time. </p><p>She told him as much. Florion agreed. </p><p>“We’ll talk more later, then. By the way, I replanted some of it. There, behind the cottage. I’ll dry some of the leaves. Let’s just… think about it some more, alright?”</p><p>“Alright. Let’s go finish cleaning the attic?”</p><p>He growled in feigned frustration, got up and dragged her with him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Aviophobia, Change of Location, Insecurities</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. The Valley</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Immigrant girl in mortal danger, takes a hot air balloon to a local version of Tuscany to have summer vacation with Green guy.<br/>*Room service and housekeeping not included</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “No slaves, no masters. They do not work for some rich and cruel man, or to become him, they do not work for money, power or for any other kind of gain. They only work for the betterment of the lives of their neighbours, and are driven by the desire to do good by them, and they rightfully expect to be granted the same in return, and this is what gives them purpose. They are kind in the most selfless, purest of ways, always mindful of those who cannot work as hard, of their old who need rest, and of their children who need education and time to simply be children. It is yet another example of a plain but fruitful principle of doing unto others as you would have others do unto you. 'All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them',  </em>
</p><p><em> is this not what the First Messiah used to preach?” </em> </p><p>The atmosphere felt very different at supper. Nobody was rushing, and they sang some songs. Aoife mustered enough courage to play and sing, too. They seemed appreciative and liked it, especially the older man who was in charge of cooking all the meals.</p><p>In the middle of one song, though, Nayiro resolutely got up and walked away. The boy with the wreath noticed. It looked like he wanted to run after her, but changed his mind and hung his head low. </p><p>The attic was clean now, if empty but for the bed, a nightstand and a rickety wardrobe (spiders, carried out, door, repaired, handles, missing), and, with a last bit of effort for the day, they hoisted the mattress and the bedding onto the metal frame, and all but collapsed on it. They reached for each other immediately, but… </p><p>“Tiiired,” Aoife whined, still stubbornly fumbling for Florion’s groin. </p><p>“Can’t move,” he agreed, squeezing her backside with equal stubbornness. </p><p>They fell asleep in seconds, just like this.  </p><p>Every limb and joint ached the next morning, but her head was surprisingly clear. At least, clear enough to persevere. </p><p>There was a family of rodents living inside the small paunchy stove that stood ajar, and Aoife decided to carry them outside. After some deliberation, she dug a hole for them to hide in. The soil was so rich here, moist, chunky and almost black. She did not even need a shovel.  </p><p>There were abandoned flower beds behind the house, and some rusted tools, and a door to a cellar that they managed to open with great difficulty. It was empty, very cold and, naturally, very dirty down there. </p><p>Supposedly the big house had extensive cellars under it, in addition to others, somewhere nearby, or so she’s been told during mealtime. </p><p>They made grape wine, raisins, vinegar and molasses here and, to a lesser extent, bred lyssej. </p><p>“My grandpa bred them,” Nayiro told her. “They both became farmers when they settled in Beruza. Him and John.”</p><p>“Ionas,” Aoife corrected absentmindedly.</p><p>Nayiro scoffed at her. “Does it matter?”</p><p>“Yes,” she said. “I think it matters. He did not want to go by his old name any longer. He wanted to become a new person.”</p><p>
  <em> Not Eve. Never Eve, never again.  </em>
</p><p>Nayiro shrugged. “If you say so. Grandpa just went by Sam all his life. I think he didn’t care enough to choose a new one.”</p><p>Nayiro tried asking her about human homelands, but Aoife couldn’t willingly talk a lot about them. There were very few good things she could tell, although Nayiro evidently yearned to hear the good bits. She understood why the girl was like this. Being born here and still feeling a little rejected because of what happened to her must have given her a reason to be curious.   </p><p>“It is a horrible place where you would have never had the freedom to do what you are doing here. Or to wear that.” Aoife nodded at her pants. “Or to be as beautiful as you are, and yet unmarried. You would have been forcefully married off to some stranger.”</p><p>“Pfft. Don’t see how they could have made me do it.”</p><p><em> By swaddling you into a sheet and giving you to him like a sack or grain, all the while calling it a beautiful wedding tradition</em>, Aoife thought, but said nothing. </p><p>“I have a dagger. And they’d have to catch me first... Giddyup!” </p><p> </p><p>Some tiny habits that’d only freshly formed between her and Florion had to change immediately. The dining table was very large, with each plate set at a distance, so they could no longer share a big one as they did in Rheske. The bath was only wide enough for one, so they had to take turns in the washroom and couldn’t bathe together. </p><p>The second day went by a lot like the first one did, they wore themselves out, rushing to turn the house livable. Aoife did not have the time or energy to ask other questions, and they collapsed on the bed again in the evening, with her laying limp across his chest and nearly crying helpless tears, both about how much she craved to climb him like a tree, and about all of her muscles humming.  </p><p>“My wrist is still functioning though,” Aoife said and grasped his manhood resolutely. </p><p>“Oh what do you know,” Florion crooned, reaching down between her legs. “So is mine.”</p><p>Third day was easier. </p><p>Aside from the cellar which they left alone for now, the house was finally clean. And almost devoid of personality, so they made a decision to start to rectify it and, before supper, ventured into the forest for the very first time. It wasn’t scary at all, although they never walked too far from the edge. It was easy to identify the way out though, by the gentle slope that led up into it, and back down to the vineyard. They found some plants and berries Florion said were safe and gathered a whole sack of pine cones which they then brought to the big house to be used in the steam room. There were places in the valley haunted by gebha, where cattle had to be guarded, where whole large areas had to be surrounded by thick fences. But, according to the winegrowers, this forest wasn’t one of them. No stinging insects were interested in her, or there were none to be found. And the biggest animal they’ve encountered was a squirrel. </p><p>They talked about their distant childhoods whenever they talked at all, but not of dreams, or secrets, or gods. And also, of how much they liked the Valley and of their plans on exploring the surrounding areas.</p><p>One solitary slip happened when Florion proposed they set out to find out where they grew and pickled all the olives, to raid their supplies and steal a barrel. “Or ten!”</p><p><em> Steal. </em> The word was there, in their soft, musical language, despite no one actually ever needing to steal anything to survive, as far as Aoife knew. <em> Except for memories. </em>But it was there, as well as the words for “criminal” and “law”, although there were no courts or judges to be found. Or were there?</p><p>“Florion, what… What do aldamaari do to criminals? Does anything happen to them?”</p><p>He stopped in his tracks. “It’s rare, but. Yes. Something does. They are taken to Kenn,” he said in a muffled voice, not looking. </p><p>“And then?”</p><p>“And then they are helped. And they go back home.”</p><p>Something in his tone made her want to stop questions for now. </p><p>She thought of the Indomitable. Was Kenn the local judge and executioner as well? What was he then if not a god? Except… <em> Helped. </em> Not killed, not maimed, not judged and thrown in jail, or convicted to penal servitude, or sold into slavery. <em> Taken to Kenn. Helped.  </em></p><p>Aoife yearned to learn what exactly that meant and, at the same time, dreaded it. </p><p>She ought to have been curious and in a way she was, continuously, except for most of the time she felt so peaceful and untroubled here and valued the feeling so much that she dared not stir up her anxiety with another secret spoken out loud. Not just yet. Aoife had a hunch that not all of them were <em> pleasant shock. </em>She kept on delaying learning them. She wanted to be ready or, at least, to feel ready. Calmer.  </p><p>Aoife barely thought about what was happening in Rheske. But whenever she did, she’d chase the thoughts away. <em> Selfishly, </em>she’d decided. </p><p>“They know what to do,” Florion assured her. “Everything will be dealt with. Until then, we will stay here.”</p><p>Maybe if Drifeo or, really, anyone else told her this, she wouldn’t have believed it. Him, she did believe. And the Valley was so beautiful, and she didn’t mind staying, and way more than just her wrist was very much <em> functioning </em> the following night. </p><p>Nothing ached on the fourth day.  </p><p>He spread some leaves and pods on a clean cloth and put it out to dry in the sun, but not before planting a few seeds. <br/>
“Is this the Little Guy?”</p><p>Florion nodded. “Still calling it that, huh.”</p><p>She beamed up at him. “Well, I’m not calling it Aoife’s Stubbornness!” Florion opened his mouth to speak, but she intercepted, “No, not because I’m stubborn! It’s because in the human language that name abbreviates to <em>ass</em>!”</p><p>“That so?” Florion whispered, smirking slightly, then shook the green bits off his palms and came closer to decidedly squeeze just that piece of her anatomy. Aoife hummed and unwittingly pressed her hips together. “So what if it does. Your ass is perfection.” He squeezed again, and slapped it lightly, and she yelped, steadying herself against the wooden railing of the porch. “And who would need to abbreviate it anyway. Not such a long name.” He started pulling her sundress up slowly, and she instinctively arched her back even more, arm darting for a column for support. </p><p>“Are you wearing any underwear?”</p><p>Aoife whimpered and shook her head. </p><p>“M-m, not sure if I trust you, I’m going to need to check.”</p><p>So he did. With his fingers, and then, kneeling before her and unceremoniously, hastily mounting one of her legs on his shoulder, with his tongue, too. </p><p>She opened her eyes to a wide rolling plain and her head was suddenly spinning. It’s not like anyone could see them. There was no one around, and their porch did not even face the road. It’s not like anyone would decide to visit, with all the inhabitants of this place busy in the fields or otherwise. But Aoife still whined a little, anxious and, at the same time, instinctively leaning forward, into his hungry mouth. She felt torn about all this. </p><p>And he must have felt it. He knew her reactions so well by now, just as she knew his. Florion got up, a gluttonous smirk on his face, and scooped her up to take her into the house. </p><p>“I want to make a mess,” he groaned. “I want to make a mess of you right now.”</p><p>“You dirty tree! As if the night wasn’t enough!” Aoife teased. </p><p>“Oh you mean last night.” Florion looked from the stairs to the kitchen table, and resolutely chose the table. “Last night when I didn’t come all over your face even once, that last night.” He planted her on it and reached to pull the sundress off her. Aoife helped him very eagerly. “When I didn’t shove a single finger up your ass, that last night.” He tore his shirt open and unlaced his pants in what felt like one swooping motion. Then he pushed her back onto the table and spread her legs open. </p><p>When she fell asleep, with him, unwilling to leave, to part, still hard, still inside of her, motionless, arms around her, that last night. </p><p>“Please, Florion, please just—”</p><p>“Please, what.” Holding his cock in the middle, he was unhurriedly teasing her entrance with it and laughed a little when she jerked her hips up to impale herself, unsuccessfully.  </p><p>“Just fuck me already!” Aoife blurted out, immediately choking on a moan, because he stopped teasing right that instant.</p><p>“Thaaaat’s my girl.” </p><p>He chose to hold on to her breasts for support this time, and he wasn’t gentle at all, and Aoife’s eyes were rolling back into her head because she loved it so much when he was like this, when they were both like this. The table creaked and rattled, but the two of them made so much noise that she only registered the creaking once, and then forgot to even wish for the table not to crumble or fall apart. Luckily, it didn’t anyway. </p><p>As Florion fucked her, he dipped his thumb into her juices and slid the tip into her ass, hips not stopping for a single second. There was barely any resistance already, and Aoife loved it when he did this, as well, but her treacherous head still did that way-too-familiar thing seconds after he’d breached her, where it would choke her with shame and make her body thrash around. But Florion held her tight, aiming to leave an imprint, and his voice was commanding, and his finger, even more insistent than before. “Hands under your knees and keep them there. Higher.” </p><p>She obeyed, gladly, because her legs were shaking, too, and because it allowed him to angle even deeper. There was no sign of physical discomfort anymore and all of it, every single inch between her legs was one aching, burning surface of <em> want, need, please. </em> </p><p>“Going to come for me so soon?” he asked, looking into her face, barely even panting. “Fair warning. I’m not going to stop just yet.”</p><p>She couldn’t answer with words, so she answered with a string of moans that then turned into one, long and uninterrupted. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Tell me how the dreaming works,” she said. </p><p>She looked so calm now as they sat outside in the grass. He felt calm enough not to rush, too, and so he did start talking. For a long time, trying not to leave anything he knew out, and with Aoife mostly only listening, taking the new information in, he spoke of everything he knew. How it was this way for many generations; perhaps, for centuries. Nineteen of them or fewer, but never more, although there were twenty stone baths. They went into the dream on the first morning of the first winter month. Each one of them had an area of expertise in which they excelled, more or less. All of them, combined, set out to improve the lives of their compatriots, sometimes addressing ongoing issues and sometimes going blind. Each one of them brought something from the dream, every year, mostly in their minds and on their skin. Some things took more than one year, like when Coris brought electricity, the technology for it, and its applications in the span of a few years. How caretakers at times sat above them for hours and days, copying the manifesting and disappearing words and symbols. He told her of how children who had a strong inclination for one science or other were tested. How some adults underwent the test as well, if they were considered experts in a required field. How it was Kenn giving them these things, little by little, always reminding them not to rush. How it was Him, most likely, stealing their memories. How that dream realm was actually Kenn’s domain, the realm of a god, where ultimately, only His will reigned. </p><p>They barely needed to struggle, to invent, to experiment, to test and try, because Kenn was never wrong. </p><p>Like a parent, feeding gruel to a child one small spoonful after the other. <em> Don’t rush, don’t rush, you’ll get burned or choke on it, don’t rush.  </em></p><p>How Florion actually had no idea where the seeds were coming from, but knew they were certainly not created from nothing. </p><p>How out of his last, seven were vile and poisonous to humans, and how the caretakers did, in fact, drag Aoife away so she wouldn't have touched them accidentally. </p><p>He wished he could have told her more. He wished he could have explained how it started and why, how they’d gotten this amazing and terrifying shortcut that humans didn’t have. How exactly did things from their minds appear on their skin. Why were the dreamers different, less connected to the others and more connected to Kenn. Why did Kenn choose him when there were other children, smarter children, more talented, already knowing more of botany. Not to mention more suitable adults who did want this position. Where did Kenn himself get all this knowledge if he really wasn’t a god, because, according to stories, only gods can possess such vast quantities of it. But Florion didn’t know.  </p><p>“He’s almost like a father. To all of you.”</p><p>“Maybe. But my dad was better than him, that’s for sure.”</p><p>“Because your dad didn’t steal your memories.”</p><p>Florion felt his heart tighten. <em> “It was not viable.” </em></p><p>“That, too.”</p><p>He told her of the dreams and visits, as well, and she listened intently and then said, “I think this man was in my dreams also. He’s… odd. And he talks funny, sometimes I barely understand him. And he’s human. Why?”</p><p>Florion did not know that either. </p><p>He told her of the black stone and the hornets. How he would say, for instance, “I’d like some cherries,” and they would fly off and bring him cherries. From the Valley, maybe, now that he thought about it, because there were no cherry trees in Rheske. Their guidance in the library, as well. The Perch. The lighthouse. All the plants in the wild. How he sat alone on the beach, building things out of sand, getting bored, and after simply asking for “something I might like'' to be built, watched them construct things for his entertainment, sometimes familiar (like sculptures of naked people, which was most welcome at the time) and sometimes weird. For example, a tower, square at the base, standing on four foundations with arches between them, and narrowing improbably at the top, or an accumulation of nine round towers of different heights, all but one having domes atop them. It was beautiful and bizarre, but the hornets inevitably took it all apart even faster than they’d constructed it. They didn’t ram their creations or topple them, they disintegrated each, one grain after the other, until it was nothing more than a pile of sand again. Blindingly fast, efficient and remorseless.  </p><p>“Which is what happened to the Indomitable. And the people on it, in the end. I… look, I asked for their deaths to be swift and painless, and...”</p><p>“That’s too bad,” Aoife interrupted. He turned to look at her and saw an expression he’d never witnessed before. For a moment, he thought she looked like someone else, someone cruel and ruthless, someone very unlike the Aoife he knew, but then it flattened and she spoke again, “No. I’m sorry. No. This is a horrible thing to say or even wish for, and it’s not like me at all. I think you did the right thing. They would have never shown mercy, yes. But one must never be like them.” </p><p>Florion shook the illusion off. After what she’d been through… Maybe it wasn’t such an unnatural thing to want revenge. He did not judge her. Himself still, maybe. He proceeded to talk about how, for a while, he considered the hornets to be his best buddies but also his toys, to be played with indiscriminately and used in any way available.  </p><p>Then he told her of how he forgot about them, and how he then remembered. Of how her friend and one of his peers got stung by them. As he spoke of this, he wondered if she was thinking about being stung, too, if she connected it to her miscarriage. He’d admit the truth later, of course… But not today. </p><p>“This Zakiyah… What happened to her after?”</p><p>Nothing much, as far as he knew. She might have overheard that Aoife was a dreamer but it hardly mattered now. He saw her once after the incident, Zakiyah ignored him, but she appeared to be doing fine. </p><p>“Maeve got so weird after that sting… She seemed so friendly, and then she disappeared, and when she returned she was very gentle but aloof, and didn’t speak much at all… Do you think it might be connected? Her disappearing for a while, and everything else?”</p><p>“About that. I think I know why she was away. It’s just a hunch, honestly, but… I think she is to be the next High Priestess.”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>He shrugged. “Think about it. She’s one of the oldest girls staying at the Temple, she is quite smart, has a big family living all over and could have chosen a different occupation already, or committed to the Temple by undergoing a standard, public initiation which, I am told, did not happen. Then, all of a sudden, she leaves for a stretch of time, and you said someone saw her with the caretakers, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“The High Priestess is privy to knowledge no one else is. Nobody knows where the source of it is kept. Maybe they were passing her that knowledge.”</p><p>“But what about Drifeo?”</p><p>Florion plucked a random spikelet. “You saw her.” </p><p>Aoife did not argue or ask other questions on the matter. </p><p>Instead, after a pause she said, “It’s so odd how you share everything, except this one bit. This knowledge.”</p><p>It was odd and yes, he’d thought about it many times, too. Even when it seemed like no one else was actually pondering on it at length. </p><p>“Most people don’t want it. They’re happy without it.”</p><p>“A bunch… of… happy… carefree… chained...” Aoife mumbled under her breath. “That weird man with the cat,” she said to Florion, much louder. “I think he’d visited me more times than I can remember, but all the details are so hazy.”</p><p>“With the cat?”</p><p>“Yes, the man from dreams, he had a cat embroidered on his clothes.”</p><p>“Huh.” Florion did not notice. Or did not remember. </p><p>“It stood upon a rainbow,” Aoife added hushfully. “The cat. It’s… So peculiar. And he said something about lithium. Lithium… salts? I think he implied Ouhri needed them to, uhm, feel better? And he could only get them at sea. From seawater… What’s lithium?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I do know that he feels better when he’s at sea, though. Always. Oh, and he doesn’t fool around with his peers or even flirt with them. It’s always strictly professional, friendly, at best.”</p><p>“I see… Forget it, it doesn’t make any sense. Let’s just go eat…” She stood up and offered him her hand. “I guess I could try to make sense of it if he comes again, but I’d rather not meet him.”</p><p>“Me neither.”</p><p> </p><p>Not meant to be. </p><p>“Well hello there, Floridaman.”</p><p>A white void around, a tiny man with overgrown eyebrows staring at him. </p><p>Florion feels a little sick. “Not you again...”</p><p>
  <em> I did ask Him. But I did sense He wouldn’t listen.  </em>
</p><p>“Uhm, just a quick question: what the <b>fuck</b>?” the man blurts out, throwing up his hands. </p><p>Florion sighs and attempts to compose himself. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Me? To rest in peace. But he wants something entirely different, you see. There’s three humans prancing around in dangerous proximity, and he’s fuming.”</p><p>Why is it Florion's responsibility again to deal with this? Doesn't his god have other people to do his bidding and to answer to Him? </p><p>“Then tell him that they will leave soon! For the love of… anything, please, make sure he doesn’t kill them.” </p><p>For a moment Florion thinks, with horror, that he’s about to hear that they’re already dead. Surely this would unleash a war.</p><p><em> Why, though? Why not just kill them? Why not just kill them a— </em> </p><p>But instead, the man crosses his arms and says, “I’ll see what I can do. But he doesn’t really listen to me, you know. I mean, not every kid is as cutesy-tootsie and nice as you, Floridaman. Regular kids are too stubborn to do as their papas tell them. They pout, and they yell, “You’re not my real daaaad!” and snivel and...”</p><p>“Please,” Florion interjects, tired, weary, and already irritated by the man again. “Please make sure he doesn’t kill them.”</p><p>But <em> the cargo has to go. The cargo has to go, my love.  </em></p><p>No, no, no. What are these thoughts, where are they coming from?! These humans, at least for now, while they are in Rheske, have to be placated. </p><p>And this particular human… He isn’t hostile but he is so annoying. Florion has so much trouble concentrating on his appearance even for a little while, it’s as if the man stands behind a veil of rain. But he remembers <em> cat </em> and looks down, and does see a cat quite clearly. And, underneath it, a rainbow. And, below the rainbow, a phrase he cannot read no matter how hard he tries. <em> It’s the humans’ alphabet, </em>he realizes weakly. </p><p>“What’s with the cat,” Florion mutters. </p><p>The man shrugs, or so it appears. “Just the shirt I was wearing when I died,” he says, and then immediately dissipates.</p><p>
  <em> So he’s dead. And he’s a ghost, an apparition, nothing more. Not a “messiah”.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Florion woke up to shrieks of a colorful, dutiful and very annoying bird. For a moment he thought, <em> that man is like this bird.</em> And then he forgot again. </p><p> </p><p>They called him over in the afternoon to, allegedly, give advice on something, which required him to go to the furthest eastern edge of the vineyard. It did not feel right to leave Aoife’s side for more than a few minutes, but she all but shooed him away from the stables (“I’ll be fine! Just go and see what’s wrong. You’ll tell me all about it later.”) so Florion pulled himself together and went. They showed him this remote patch of land where the vines barely grew. The latter were withering and feeble compared to their thriving neighbours. Florion bent down close to examine the weak vines for swellings, fungal growth, and see if there’s any mildew, mottling or mosaics on leaves, but found none, no matter how hard he looked, moving from one to the other, gazing at them from all sides and angles. These were healthy, just… dying.  </p><p>“Diverted a stream that was passing through and expanded here this year,” one of the men said. “These wouldn’t grow properly.”</p><p>“Did it start with one and then spread or—”</p><p>“No, they all turned like this at some point. Stopped growing.”</p><p>“Did you plant them all at once? What was the weather like when you did?”</p><p>“Yes, well...”</p><p>Florion asked a few more questions until, finally, he straightened his back and shook his head. </p><p>“I’m afraid they won’t grow and won’t bear fruit. You can give up on these ten at least.” He pointed to the vines closest to the edge of the developed land. They weren’t getting enough nutrients. The soil looked the same everywhere around him, and yet they were quite obviously doomed. “If it is a disease, it is not one known to me.” </p><p>“That bad, huh.”</p><p>He nodded. “From here on, I suppose, you have two choices. Either wait for a miracle, which I wouldn’t advise. Or uproot them and dig.” </p><p>“Dig,” the winegrower repeated, looking dumbfounded. “How deep?”</p><p>“If my guess is correct, deep enough to find what has been messing with their roots, to remove it and plant anew next year.” </p><p>The man seemed reluctant. </p><p>“Are you sure we can’t cure them? Just doesn’t feel right.”</p><p>“I really don’t think that this is a disease. If it is, it’s new, I have no cure and do not know if it might spread. Better not risk it.”</p><p>They trusted his opinion, they just did not, understandably, want to see their labors going to waste. </p><p>“Right then.”</p><p>So Florion stayed to own up to his words, to help bring in a bouquet of shovels and dig. It took less than an hour for one of the workers to whistle sharply, attracting the attention of everyone else. </p><p>“Found something.” He tapped the shovel and there was a clang. Flecks of soil danced away, revealing what appeared to be a piece of metal. </p><p>“Buried treasure. Like in stories,” someone said, almost with awe. </p><p>Unfortunately it wasn’t. As they cleaned around and expanded the hole, it soon became clear that this wasn’t a treasure chest from a fairy tale. It was a solid sheet of metal, at least six by six feet, silvery, improbably smooth, with no signs of rust on it. </p><p>Florion stopped them.</p><p>“Do not touch it with your bare hands,” he warned. </p><p>When everyone involved had gardening gloves on, they grabbed it by the edges and lifted it. The sheet was quite thin. The metal looked almost as polished as a mirror and it was improbably light, at least in comparison to other metals Florion knew. Not a single tool would leave even a slightest dent on it. </p><p>“Hey, there’s something written underneath!” a young farmhand exclaimed, crouching, amidst all the murmurs of confusion. “Or is it just symbols?”</p><p>“Not symbols,” Florion said upon looking. “Human alphabet. I think.”</p><p>Or something that looked awfully like it. The letters were made of the same metal, melded into it, convex, bulbous. It looked absolutely improbable. Insects and slugs were still crawling away from the letters, scattering. So it wasn’t poisonous to life, at least, simply blocking the roots… But he did not regret his warning. Better safe than sorry.  </p><p>“Do you know what it says?”</p><p>“No. Should I go fetch Aoife?”</p><p>He hoped they would say yes, because he was already missing her. </p><p>But the winegrower nearest to him shook his head. “No need.” He put fingers into his mouth and let out a string of whistles that sounded almost like a melody. It repeated further away. Someone was passing a message on. </p><p>In a few minutes, Nayiro galloped in. </p><p>“What’s that say?” the winegrower asked her without any preamble, pointing at the sheet of metal that now stood leaning against a tree. </p><p>She guided her lyssej closer and squinted. </p><p>“It’s two words. See, they’re separate. “Cargo” and “bay”. They don’t make much sense together.”</p><p>“Cargo, as in goods, shipment?” Florion inquired.</p><p>She nodded. </p><p>“And bay, like a cove? Like the one in Rheske?” asked another man.</p><p>“Yeah. What is this thing, anyway?”</p><p>“We just dug it out!” one of the farmhands, the younger one, said, waving towards the rectangular pit they’ve created, as well as a pile of dead vines they were to burn. “It’s amazing!”</p><p>For some reason Nayiro rolled her eyes as if he’d said something extremely annoying. </p><p>“Whatever,” she declared. “Need anything else? I gotta go run errands for Partheio.”</p><p>“No, we’re good, thank you.”</p><p>He showed the metal to Aoife later. </p><p>“What if it’s a geographical location,” he pondered. “Just a name of some place. Like Cypress Bay in Iquinous. Or the Bay of Rheske.” It still would not explain the object itself, though, but it was something. </p><p>For a while Aoife did not say a thing, crouching next to the sheet with a furrowed brow and staring at the words intently. </p><p>Then she said, “Maybe you’re right, except… I don’t know why I’m even saying it, but It doesn’t <em> feel </em>like it.”</p><p>“A hunch? I usually trust those.”</p><p>Aoife nodded. “And you know what else? It’s so odd. But when I look at this, I feel anger.”</p><p>It must have been very unpleasant and frustrating for her to discover unexplainable signs of human presence here, although she’d vehemently insisted that no human blacksmith she knew or heard of was capable of making this. And the stream flowed above the place for at least two decades, according to the men. </p><p>“But not in a sense that… Ugh. It’s somewhat of a cold anger. Resolute anger. Which is really not my thing. Flower, I can’t explain.” He offered her his hand and she got up. “It reminds me of some dreams I used to have. Where everything around is metal, and I’m very angry. Perhaps it’s just this.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But we both know that sometimes dreams aren’t just dreams.”</p><p>“Yes,” she agreed and shook her head. “I want to get away from this. May we go explore the forest some more? While the sun is still up.”</p><p>“Of course. Whatever you wish, my love.” </p><p>He’s had enough of this, as well. The Valley was beautiful, and their stay here felt like the most beautiful dream, too, and he did not want anything to sully it. </p><p>~*~</p><p>The two of them offered their help at the vineyard, but were turned down because “it’s fine with just us until the harvest starts”. Allegedly, their help would be required and welcomed if they stayed till the end of summer. Aoife was of two minds about this. She loved it here but, at the same time, yearned to go back to Rheske. </p><p>The both of them were also worried how Ouhrion would take the news of them moving so far away from the coast and not being able to see him for a while. They hoped he’d understand. They hoped they would be able to make up for it. </p><p>Still, Aoife felt bad about not doing anything, so while Florion slowly and meticulously repaired the house with clay, and wood, and whitewash, she helped Nayiro with the animals. Aoife quickly learned how to clean, feed and saddle them. She liked the lysseji more and more with each passing day, they were very gentle creatures despite their massive size, and antlers, and big teeth. They liked to be brushed and petted. She even mustered enough courage to try and ride Gadar. Initially she was given a ladder to climb into a saddle, to simply get used to sitting in it and to understand how reins worked. Aoife managed not to fall off, but the experience felt grueling. Next time, Florion led Gadar by the reins at a snail’s pace, in a circle, while she was squealing something horrible and holding on to the saddle for dear life. But Florion was egging her on to try and try and try again, and he did, as well, succeeding quite fast and never showing any fear, although the mare given to him to ride, called Jasmio, was nearly two times bigger than Gadar. In about a week Aoife no longer needed to cling to the saddle, and Florion was able to gallop. He did it often, with relish and a throaty laughter as he went, and she tried very hard to quieten her panic when he did this.  </p><p>Technically they were now able to sleep for as long as they wanted, but some vociferous colorful bird would fly up to their window each morning at almost exactly six, and yell and honk horribly at them from the sill until they'd wake up and start throwing things at it, at which point the bird would flap its wings outside and screech even louder. They tried placating it with food left on the windowsill overnight, but it didn’t work, because the bird would still scream, then eat the offering, then scream some more. As it turned out, this was the so-called clockbird; he and his brethren knew the time, maybe by the sun rising, and were awakening each of the vineyard inhabitants in the same way, and its actions were nothing personal or malevolent, although they sure felt like it, initially. </p><p>So they decided to try and start going to bed very early, just like every other inhabitant of this place did. Which wasn’t a particularly welcome change, because Aoife loved short summer nights too much to use them for sleep. In the end this method didn’t work either. They were too hungry for each other each time they got into bed. So in the morning they’d wake, and groan, and meekly wait out the bird’s shrills, and try to go back to sleep. Until they mentioned the whole ordeal to Nayiro in passing, and she gave them earplugs fashioned from beeswax and cotton. The bird was thus defeated. </p><p>They kept on exploring the forest, daring to venture further and further into it, up the <em> opposite </em>slope of the Mountain Mother. It was the most untroubled place Aoife's ever been to. She felt her best and calmest self in it, and the air that filled her lungs, earthy and warm, mixing with the familiar scent of her beloved as she embraced him felt so comforting. It felt like home.  </p><p>The nearest village, called Pagasi, as it turned out was only a few miles away. There was no Worship day service in there, or even a semblance of a Temple, but most of the vineyard inhabitants went there anyway, for news, entertainment and supplies. It was quite loud for such a small place, because nearly every caravan stopped there and because every type of produce was brought to Pagasi from the farms and orchards, and there were bakeries, and cellars and manufactories in abundance, as well. Most everything they made was food, to be sent to the coast. Florion found his olives and a replacement for the cracked window. Nobody stared at her. They’ve done their staring, and then some, after Nayiro had arrived, and were no longer interested. Only once a child approached her and asked what she was using to dye her hair in such a color. “It’s actually squirrel fur, not hair,” Aoife told him. “I'm part squirrel, you see.” </p><p>“You’re too big.”</p><p>It was the first time in over two years someone told her the opposite of “you’re tiny!” and Aoife couldn’t help but laugh. </p><p>Talking about the secrets, and of how the dreamers operated, and what they’d brought year after year, was getting easier, but no less unpleasant and confusing. They’d ration their conversations about it all. Sometimes, with circumstances interrupting them, like the bell or someone asking for a bit of assistance, or Nayiro galloping past and inviting them to join her. But, more often than not, they would just decide that it’s enough for today, and stop. Much more pleasant to plan and to dream, especially of how, maybe, when <em> that </em> is all over, they’d come back to visit here each summer. There was <em> each future summer </em> in the plans now, there was <em> for the rest of our lives </em> there now, as well, spoken out loud. </p><p>She learned that it was Kenn, probably, who stopped the dreamers from aging when they were in his realm. As if he froze them in time. Criminals were rare but they existed, and they’d be brought to him and left in a cavern for no more than half an hour, and would then be brought out, mumbling, tearful and full of remorse, and begging for forgiveness. What did he do to them? Sting them like he did poor Maeve, turning her cheerful and jittery, and then, meek and aloof?</p><p>Allegedly he was able to grow back lost limbs in unlucky elasma fishermen, he was able to restore eyes and hearing. <em> Who else, if not a god?!  </em>And yet they barely talked about him, if at all. </p><p>The caretakers were his, Florion told her. They were his servants, and they were the most apathetic and unpleasant of any aldamaari he knew. Did they actually care for <em> him</em>? In what way, then?</p><p>Florion did not know. </p><p>“The word we use for them was also the olden word for nanny, children’s nurse or milk mother. It has since shed that meaning. They are just… caretakers.”</p><p>
  <em> Vartistinoji. </em>
</p><p>Aoife shuffled through her memories, connecting the dots, and small revelations would come to her, one after the other. </p><p>“In the caverns I thought I heard an insect once, and wondered in passing how it got there. That week just after you woke up, I saw something like a very large wasp, it was trying to get into my home, banging on the window. I remember being mildly surprised that it was around so early in the season. And I think there was a hornet in the kitchen before Boaldaen. When I fainted from what I thought was overexertion and saw a vision of that weird man. The scullion screamed for someone to chase it away, although he seemed to think it was a horsefly... But now I’m sure it wasn’t, and that it wasn’t a coincidence. Oh, and that first night you took me to the dreamer house, a large insect brushed past my cheek, buzzing. Now that I think about it, it was also too early in the year. Oh my love, has He been watching me all the time?”</p><p>“Not only watching, I’m afraid...”</p><p>This was the very last bit. One that, she’d suspected, Florion was trying very hard to postpone telling her, until he could no longer postpone it. </p><p>She cried a little after, and he embraced her through it, silent and reliable, and then she stopped. The Valley was too beautiful for tears. </p><p>“He took our child,” Aoife muttered once again. </p><p>Florion breathed out a muffled, “Yes”. </p><p>Allegedly Kenn insisted that it was to save her life, but Aoife did not trust him. She did not trust gods. He also wanted something from her, or so it seemed. He doted on her, in an odd way, a perverted way. She had no idea why. She had no idea if she wanted to actually learn, why. Could it have been because she was some sort of abnormality, what with her being able to become pregnant off an aldamaari man, or enter Kenn’s realm? She still had no proof that this was a unique occurrence. </p><p>Aoife's come to realise very clearly that one thing bound all the secrets together. Despite no one mentioning it, despite everyone evidently ignoring the fact, the whole of their society revolved around Kenn. Everything they did, everything they had, everything they had been able to achieve, everything they were only striving to achieve, all of it, <em> him</em>. Everything, everywhere, all of the time, silent, unseen, watching, giving, taking away.  </p><p>It must have been him and his hornets who’d created that atlas, those maps. They could fly high and far, after all. Could it be that he truly was the Monster of human legends? If so, why did he despise humans but not despise her? Did he despise Ionas and Samuel and their children, and all the refugees, and Nayiro, as well? The latter was aldamaari in all but name, tethers and chains aside, so maybe Kenn’d reluctantly come to accept her as one, but why her, why Aoife? What was so important and special about her? The fact that she, at least according to Ouhri, did have a tether?..</p><p>Yes, maybe he wasn’t a god. Maybe he wasn’t a father, either. But he seemed all-powerful. And he was, by almost any definition, a king and a tyrant. Perhaps a benevolent one, Aoife thought, and then rubbed her lower belly. <em> Or maybe not.  </em></p><p>The Valley was too beautiful for tears, and it was too beautiful for anger, and it was too beautiful for holding grudges. But Aoife held one still, harder than she held Florion that night. She no longer felt as happy at the perspective of entering Kenn’s realm as a dreamer. But at the same time she hoped to somehow confront him. </p><p>She fell asleep with the thought of it and was almost immediately plunged into a dream made of metal. Except this time, instead of silence or quiet humming, there was a voice. It sounded so familiar that it <em> ached</em>. It sounded so familiar because it was coming out of her mouth, addressing a string of golden lights.  </p><p>“Why not,” the voice said and then, as if mocking something or someone: “<em>It’s hope. It’s unity. It’s Esperanto.</em>” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Rough Sex, Plot Revelations, Plot Twist, Genre Twist (foreshadowed)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. The Experiment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Local version of Tuscany is awesome!<br/>*you can ride a cute moose-horse-thingie<br/>*you can talk about god?<br/>*you can build a home for mice<br/>*you can boink atop old furniture<br/>*you can dig out artifacts of the plot twist variety</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Maybe, just maybe, everything we think we know is a lie. Maybe it is nothing but a string of nonsensical fallacies and misconceptions hammered into our heads by those who do not know any better, and mistake their age for wisdom, and want us to always be as miserable as they were made by their predecessors: a cursed chain of grief and evil. (...) Maybe you cannot really exorcise your demons, but you have the power to make them your allies. As they are not some separate creatures wishing you harm because it is supposedly in their nature. No, your demons are just you, and your preconceived notions clawing at your throat. And the heavenly clouds and pits of hell are not somewhere out there, waiting to claim you when you die. They are right here, right now, within you, always, ready to be entered and explored.” </em>
</p><p>“So in theory,” Florion started cautiously, “what is the first thing a human would do with an unfamiliar plant? Dry it and smoke it?”</p><p>“Eat it,” Aoife answered right away, almost without thinking. </p><p>He smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Even if it doesn’t look nice?”</p><p>Aoife nudged his side with her elbow. “Where does this theoretical plant grow?”</p><p>“Let’s say, where you were born.”</p><p>“Eat it,” she immediately repeated. “Even if it doesn’t look nice.”</p><p>The question wasn’t all that theoretical, because the two of them were standing over the Little Guy, planning to thin it out further. Its seed pods looked a lot like opy pods, but its leaves reminded her of sorrel. She used to consider sorrel sauce, served on a watery chunk of river fish, a delicacy. But that was long before she discovered pomegranate sauce, tomato sauce, lemon sauce. And garlic sauce, and hot pepper sauce, and sweet and sour pepper sauce, and sesame sauce, and walnut sauce, and that green sauce that had pine nuts in it and went really well with noodles and—</p><p>Aoife was very hungry. </p><p>“How many more hours?”</p><p>“At least one more. I’m sorry. It’s for the purity of the experiment.”</p><p>Aoife stamped her foot, Florion chuckled.</p><p>“Come on, you can do it. Before going into the dream we don’t eat for at least one day. Only water.” He passed her a glass and she took a big sip.   </p><p>The truth was, she used to go for days without food, and he knew it by now. But that was <em> before</em>.</p><p>And another truth: food was scarce where she’d been born, for at least two thirds of the people who did not have the privileges others had. Aoife knew all too well how she would have acted upon seeing something that seemed edible. She did act like it, numerous times. You see a berry bush that has berries on it, you make sure there are none left when you’re done. You see wild leek, or chives, or collard, or something that looks like them, and you pluck the leaves, and you stuff them into your mouth. And then you hope and pray that no consequences will befall you. </p><p>She probably had to tell him, so she did. “Not only do you eat it. You eat… a lot. All of it, if you can.”</p><p>“Huh,” Florion replied, and then went on musing. </p><p>She tugged at his sleeve after a few seconds of silence. He came to and turned, and absentmindedly smiled down at her. </p><p>“Does this mean I’ll have to eat a bowl of salad made from the Little Guy?” <em> And, if so, may I eat it with olive oil and local grape vinegar please. Or grape molasses. Either is fine, really.  </em></p><p>“No. I think it means that it will act very fast.”</p><p>“Why do you think so?”</p><p>“I’ll explain in a minute.”</p><p>Florion took her by the hand and led her to the house where a large pot was boiling on the paunchy stove. He used to use this pot to disinfect his pincers and other instruments, the names of which she didn’t know, in his lab back in Rheske, and he brought it along as a container, filled with tiny flasks of remedies and potions. Aoife sat down. Being hungry, even now, when she knew that she could just go and ask for some food, and be given plenty, was vexing, and she did not care for the feeling at all. She’d been hoping to never experience it again. But for the <em> purity of the experiment</em>… </p><p>He took the pot off the stove. </p><p>“I’m not sure why I think so. I might have forgotten.” He sighed. “But I can apply logic. It grows fast. But it’s not invasive, and cattle eat it without consequences, so…”</p><p>“I still can’t believe you gave Gadar some <em> mind-altering substance</em>!” Aoife interrupted. He half-turned, arched an eyebrow at her and <em> tsked</em>. </p><p>“Is someone fishing for a spanking?” Florion asked with a sly smile. Aoife smiled back. She was, but that was not the point. “I’m sorry. I had to. I also gave it to a sheep. Humans don’t have lysseji.”</p><p>They had very few sheep, too. Humans mostly had pigs, at best.  </p><p>“Nothing happened to either of them. They weren’t that enthusiastic. So,” Florion continued, lifting the lid and checking under it, “humans won’t uproot it. And they will try to eat it, according to you. But there needs to be plenty for all. I remember asking for a plant that will not go extinct due to overconsumption. And you usually get what you ask for down there… You said it wasn’t bitter when you tried a tiny bit. So what I think is going to happen, again, in theory, is this. You see it, you pluck a few, you eat them, and it either knocks you out cold or does something to you very, very fast, so you do not continue eating.”</p><p>Aoife nodded. “Got it.”</p><p>“Pure speculation, though,” Florion added, spreading a clean cloth on a table top and reaching for large tongs. </p><p>Aoife drank some more water. “I’m here to change this into a fact.”</p><p>“Just so.”</p><p>Florion did not argue anymore. They both made up their minds, and the time for arguing and “are you sure?” was over now. They were doing it. He fished out some objects out of the water and put them on the cloth. </p><p>“You never told me how you plan on getting it there. Across the ocean and, well, all over the place. Did you have any ideas?”</p><p>“One, but I’ll shelve it for now.” He turned, moved away and nodded at the objects now unobstructed by his back. “Alright. Empty stomach, every available remedy at hand, <em> and </em> empty bowels, remember?”</p><p>It was a disassembled clyster syringe. A small one, like the healers used back in Rheske, she wouldn’t have minded, but this one was big. “I absolutely have to, right?”</p><p>“Yes. Think you can handle thirty ounce?” </p><p>“I guess I’m about to find out. I’ll go get some vinegar from the cellar then.” <em> And practice my warrior’s cry.  </em></p><p>The nasty things that her inner voice was screaming at her while she stood up and pulled Florion down by the collar to casually peck him on the lips, were deafening. <em> Disgusting, obscene, unseemly to discuss such things with a man! </em>Aoife did not bat an eye. </p><p><em> “If I’m lucky, I’ll kill you today,” </em> she thought back to it, instead. <em> “And it will be a sacrifice in the name of science, too.” </em></p><p> </p><p>They’ve decided to proceed with the experiment on the porch, because it was Aoife’s favourite place in the house, so Florion dragged out another chair in addition to the one that already stood there, as well as a footrest for her, and the small table from upstairs. Upon the latter, he laid the sketchbook Ouhri had gifted him, along with a few pencils. </p><p>“All good?” </p><p>Aoife nodded. Her body felt empty and wrung out like a washcloth, but her head was full of noise. “Let’s do it,” she said through it and through gritted teeth. </p><p>Florion passed her a mug. “Take a few sips.”</p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>“Just some tea to help you keep the thing down. No ginger in it, I swear,” he added, smiling. </p><p>The tea was fine. The last time she drank it was a painful thing to recall, but she tried not to think about it. Instead she thought of how she’d mentioned her aversion to ginger only once, in passing, and he remembered… <em> “God, your memory is weird, Flor!” </em> </p><p>“I’ll be here. If you need assistance and can’t speak, tap my wrist like this.” Florion showed her and then made her repeat the simple gesture. “If you can’t move at all and are distressed, I will notice, probably, but still, slowly blink three times.” </p><p>“You really think this is going to be necessary?”</p><p>“No. But better safe than sorry.”</p><p>Next, he passed her a few washed and rolled leaves, with a crease in his brow, then reached for a pencil and opened the notebook. </p><p>Without <em> listening</em>, without any further hesitation, Aoife shoved them into her mouth and started chewing. It took some time. </p><p>The leaves were meaty and sour, and their taste did, in fact, remind her of sorrel. But also of mint, by the peculiar way they prickled the tongue and, yes, lamia, with that easily identifiable earthy tinge to it. Maybe Florion was right. Or, maybe, the explanation was even simpler. Even as hungry as she was, Aoife did not want to eat any more. Not even with olive oil and grape molasses. It didn’t feel like real food<em>. </em>It felt like a breath freshener. She swallowed with effort. </p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>She shook her head, settling back in her chair. Florion was scribbling something, throwing looks at her from time to time. </p><p>Then he said, “Let’s wait.”</p><p>She wasn’t knocked out or immediately sick, so that was good. Waiting was fine in her books. She also no longer felt nervous but neither did she feel as excited as before. Aoife took another sip of water, put the glass back on the table, crossed her legs and turned to look at the view from the porch. </p><p>It was a nice day, and the latter seemed to be frequent in the Valley, at least during this time of year. With only a few puffy clouds in the sky, and a light breeze. Not too hot, not humid at all. Somewhere far, out over the rolling plain, someone was driving sheep down a causeway. “A white cloud above and a white cloud below”, Aoife thought distractedly. Maybe if the waiting took too long, she’d go get a book or her lyre. </p><p>“What used to be your second favourite place after Rheske?” <em> Used to be, </em>because by this point they’d both decided that the Valley was now their favourite place. </p><p>He lowered the pencil but did not put it down. “Sarema, I think. It’s really nice there.” </p><p><em> Sa-re-ma</em>. Aoife absurdly mused on how there was something missing in this word. A fleeting feeling, and it lasted no more than half a second. </p><p>“Is it very hot there?”</p><p>“Middle of summer, yes. That’s when I went.” Yes, he loved heat. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to— </p><p>
  <em> It’s really nice how summer is longer than other seasons.  </em>
</p><p>She stared at the clouds again. One looked like a donkey. <em> Hold on, what’s a donkey? </em>Aoife tensed. The feeling was subtle at first, she just knew that something was not quite right, but couldn’t pinpoint it. </p><p>He noticed. Perhaps in her expression or in the way she shifted in the chair. </p><p>“Aoife...”</p><p>She took a deep breath. “I think I can feel… something. It’s not physical but…” Her voice felt so detached. As if it wasn’t her own. Panic started rising to her throat. “It’s…”</p><p>“Yes?” He moved his chair closer. The scraping noise felt like a painful jab. </p><p>Aoife looked out into the Valley again. Something was happening to it. As if it was getting more illumination. Not unpleasant to look at, not painful to the eyes, simply odd. Her panic subsided, but then rose again, like a wave. </p><p>She couldn’t help but compare it all to the soothing effect of Sunset sleep, in favor of the latter. That thing did knock her out, but it didn’t leave any time for her to start panicking. Not. Fair. A part of her, a stubborn, nasty part of her, was fighting the feeling, tooth and nail. Aoife could not understand if it was fighting against the panic or with it. Her heart was racing. Her fists, clenching and unclenching. Her foot, nervously bouncing. </p><p>“Look at me,” Florion called. She looked right into his eyes. They were so beautiful. So bright. A pair of golden lights… No, a string. </p><p>“What are you feeling?”</p><p>“Panic.” Something was happening to her. Something she’d never experienced and couldn’t properly explain. “I keep wanting to let in this other feeling, a good feeling, but I can’t.”</p><p>“Don’t think about it too hard,” he reached out his hand and cupped her cheek. “Surrender to it.”</p><p>So beautiful, so bright, so familiar. </p><p>“Like I do to you,” she whispered.</p><p>...Dark when they are full of desire for her, when his lips give a command and she obeys. </p><p>“Like you do to me, my love.” </p><p>She swallowed, realising that she hasn’t done it in a few minutes, and felt the aftertaste on her tongue and in her nostrils.  </p><p>“I’ll try. Give me a few… minutes. I’m fine, really, I’m fine.”</p><p>Physically she was, no doubt about it. Nothing ached, no vertigo, no nausea. She even forgot her hunger. But Aoife kept on trying to relax, wanted to relax, and couldn’t. </p><p>As if an unknown sensation came to the door of her mind and insistently knocked on it, and then knocked again and again, while the door was barred and held from the inside by—  </p><p>
  <em> It’s me. I’m holding it. I’m pressing on the door from the inside. It’s me.  </em>
</p><p>For a while, her panic shifted, turning into an irritation of such unimaginable proportions that her hand twitched, wanting to push Florion away. <em> Why is he so overprotective, why is he always there, I want to be alone, leave me alone, please, leave </em>— </p><p>She wanted to jump up and pace, but found herself unable to do it, while still being capable of moving. </p><p><em> I don’t deserve him, I don’t deserve anything, anything, leave me to die, leave </em>—</p><p>She looked at the tip of his pencil. Suddenly, it was in sharp focus. Suddenly, it felt fascinating. Suddenly, she could see the letters behind it, flowing in his familiar, sprawly uninterrupted handwriting. Suddenly, she saw the whole of him in this handwriting. <em> Why?</em>..</p><p>She didn’t need to try to relax anymore, though. It felt inevitable that the door would be broken down, and it was. Her thoughts that were like vermin, flicking back and forth, suddenly stopped racing. Mind, firmly in the present. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Alright,” she says, voice calm but still a separate entity, as Aoife feels mild surprise at the fact that words form and sound with no trouble. “I feel good now. I think I need to just sit and think for a while.”</p><p><em> Good </em>is the wrong word and a tad dishonest, too, because there is only potential for it. But potential is better than nothing. </p><p>Also, <em> think </em> is the wrong word, <em> feel </em> would be the correct one. She feels like <em> feeling</em>.</p><p>He nods, not saying anything. She’s grateful for it. How do they understand each other so well? Her head is heavy, and this is physical. Maybe the rest of her is a bit too heavy, as well, but she doesn’t care. It’s even somewhat pleasant. It’s like a thick, heavy blanket over her.   </p><p>
  <em> He’s like a blanket.  </em>
</p><p>Did she feel irritated by his presence a minute ago? Odd.</p><p>Aoife looks at him a while, thinking of how much she needs him, craves him. Although his overprotectiveness is, indeed, a little <em> funny </em> at times. So she gives him a little smile and then looks out the porch again.</p><p>And sees the world <em> breathing</em>. There is still a part of her that realises it cannot be happening, because the soil, and the trees, and the rocks, and every single stalk of grass, they don’t have lungs. </p><p>But this is what it looks like. It’s amazing. Rising and descending unhurriedly, like a chest of a giant. Everything is connected under the sun, and to the sun, as well. Everything is inhaling as one. Exhaling. Inhaling. </p><p>Maybe if she touches him Florion will see it, too. She reaches for his free hand and feels relief when their fingers intertwine. She stays like this and forgets about it. </p><p>Almost every feeling and thought that comes is short, fragmented. But some linger for a while. Some slide away and back again. </p><p>...I miss weaving and the calm monotony of it. It’s a predictable, grounding thing. It always produces results and it allows you to think with your hands more than with your head. He said that in his hometown the looms are now au-to-ma-ted, they do everything for you, as if they can think for themselves, and no one really needs to weave by hand anymore, and this feels a little wrong. And a little sad.  </p><p>...I really love music but I dislike the harpsichord. It’s fine to dislike it. It doesn’t mean I dislike music. Music comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s great. How did that song go? </p><p>...But why would they talk of Kenn at length? This is the only reality they know. It's mundane, it's a given. It's not like he ever let them down or was capricious or actively asked for sacrifice or for things in return. At least, from the overwhelming majority. Right? It's like a parent providing for you, and how often do you complain about or discuss a parent taking casual care of you if he’s doing a decent job? <em> Do not worship me, I am not a god. </em> Most of them have no idea that humans aren't the same in this regard. Some of them, maybe, think that humans <em> actively choose </em>to turn Kenn's gifts down, and that is why they are so miserable. Maybe. But most of them just do not care. </p><p>...If he is able to grow back eyes, ears and limbs in them, could he fix me, too? Would I trust him to?</p><p>...Is Ionas not scared? How did he hide? Did he hide at all? Oh, but they don’t know he’s there, nobody will be looking for him. If he wanted to he could be the one to spy on them, and not the other way around. It’s really good that he’s taking care of our garden. Of those lilies, especially. </p><p>...Mahri is always so sweet but so carefree. Is it really her age or. No, it’s just her age. Why does she like candied ginger? Ginger is disgusting. No, hold on, no food is disgusting. And it’s her right to like what she likes. I love grilled sprouts and watermelons. She doesn’t. More for me. More ginger for her. That’s great. </p><p>...That cook in the big house, as well as all the cooks in Rheske, I should thank them more often. They will probably appreciate it if I do, they can’t <em> feel </em> my gratitude, so I must use more words. </p><p>...He said he suspects that it’s not really him when he dreams. He said he feels like it’s a different person. Could it really be? Now that I know him so much better, he really does feel like someone else. Except, not like a completely different person. Just, maybe, a slightly different person. But he just met me back then. It’s fine. It’s him. How could it not be him. </p><p>...Why did he ask me what I was? Does it matter that he did? I should remember to think about it some more. I probably won’t remember but I should. </p><p>...That word means “treasure” in the dictionary, but he doesn’t actually speak of gold or gems in someone’s coffers. They don’t have locked coffers here but they have plenty of gold. And it doesn’t actually mean <em> that </em>treasure. It means something else. Their language is nice but confusing. </p><p>...And why do they only have one word for love? There should be ten words for love. Loves are so different. Except, no, not really. It’s just love. Here, it’s just love. There should not be other words. </p><p>She barely has any perception of time, not because it was taken from her but because, <em> honestly, time doesn’t matter</em>. It’s there, it’s solid, but it does not matter. Maybe some of it passes. Maybe it sits still. </p><p>Colors are so beautiful. If she sees a rainbow, she'll probably cry. Good thing there are no rainbows around. Tears are exhausting. </p><p>…“Butterfly” is a really nice name for a ship, although it looks nothing like one. It's great that they don't name them after dead people like humans do. </p><p>A cabbage butterfly lands on the porch. It’s white and delicate. Does she arrive before or after Aoife remembers the ship? </p><p>...There is no before and after. Everything is one. </p><p>This butterfly is a part of the porch and of the world beyond. It’s a part of her, too. Everything is a part of a bigger whole. Everything is connected. She can see it so clearly now, and it’s nothing to joke about, nothing to dismiss or take lightly. It’s almost sacred, it’s wondrous and very nearly ineffable, the way everything holds together. Florion is part of her, as well, even when he is not inside of her. </p><p>And she of him. So this is why they understand each other so well. They are connected. </p><p>But it’s sharper when you touch. Need to. </p><p>“May I sit on your lap?” </p><p>He reaches out immediately and drags her onto it. The relief and happiness she feels upon touching him makes her want to weep, if only for a second. <em> Is this why they touch each other all the time? They get it. </em> Florion cradles her with one arm, as Aoife weakly rubs her head against him and says something in a whisper but doesn’t really hear, care or understand what exactly it is. His second arm wraps around her, too and he hums a little, squeezing her tighter, and laughs quietly. For some reason. It’s probably because she just told a joke. She doesn’t remember it anymore. </p><p>“You’re flattering me. It’s no more than eleven,” he says, still chuckling. Hoarse.  </p><p>...His voice is so deep and low, but his face looks so young, as if he’s a boy and an old man at the same time. It’s a little bizarre. <em> “How old is our Florion indeed!” </em></p><p>Voice. Just a second. </p><p>She needs to do something. There’s a task. Oh, right. </p><p>...I can do it. Nothing is too hard. Everything is clear and doable. There’s nothing I can’t do. Just a nuisance. I can do it and then I can get back to being part of everything again. To melt into it, unimpeded. </p><p>When did that voice appear? Was it always there? Was it always so hateful? No, she does not think so. It used to be only, <em> survive. </em> Rarely space for anything else. It helped her, that voice. She remembers now. But when <em> survive </em> was no longer needed, it did not know how to adapt. It kept expecting <em> bad. </em>Is this the reason. Or maybe it’s something else. </p><p>…Is this really my voice? If it’s <em> their </em>voice, I have the power to shut it down. And if it’s mine then maybe.</p><p>She no longer feels tense when she pokes it. No longer feels shaky and scared. She’s relaxed and pliant. And malleable, like a ball of dough. With the whole surrounding world helping her, with him helping her, she can shape this dough into anything. </p><p>And she can stop yelling at it to shut up, or to die, and just talk. </p><p>Why are you like this to me. What do you actually want from me. Aren’t you me. Everything is part of everything else. </p><p>
  <em> I… I… Yes? </em>
</p><p>Don’t you want me to be happy. I want me to be happy. </p><p>
  <em> You’re ugly and disgusting. There’s things oozing out of you.  </em>
</p><p>Not right now. That’s not the real reason. Why?</p><p>
  <em> Because… Because…  </em>
</p><p>No, really, why? </p><p>
  <em> Because!  </em>
</p><p>Alright, so how can I stop being ugly and disgusting then? </p><p>
  <em> You can’t!  </em>
</p><p>Then why should I care? Toads are ugly and disgusting, they don’t care. And I don’t care. Honestly, what do you want me to do about it? </p><p>No answer. Maybe it will come later. </p><p>She calls for him. </p><p>“M?” He scribbles something, then puts his pen down and brings his hand to her face to caress it. </p><p>She asks him a question. </p><p>He smiles. She loves his smile so much. She loves him so much. He is a part of her. “I think you are the most beautiful person in the world.”</p><p>See, he thinks I’m beautiful. I also, quite honestly, think so. I’ve been eating well. </p><p>
  <em> He’s lying. </em>
</p><p>Why would he lie though. </p><p>
  <em> He, um. </em>
</p><p>Why would he lie. He’s already had sex with me.  </p><p>
  <em> He…  </em>
</p><p>Could you please just tell me why it matters so much to you. </p><p>
  <em> You need to remember. To never forget.  </em>
</p><p>Remember what.</p><p>There’s no response. Aoife is tired of this conversation. It’s pointless and hard. So she lets some time pass in silence, touching him. </p><p>The threads on his shirt are so interesting, she could stare at them for hours. Maybe she actually does. It’s a really nice, solid weave. She can see that the one who made this cloth was doing a good job. It couldn’t have been a machine, because machines are not capable of this. It was a person. How did they form such amazing shapes? Were these shapes here before? It’s a shame she did not notice them. Oh, and his hair. It’s so beautiful. Aoife plays with the tip of his braid. So soft. She’d love to pet a lyssej right now, even though they aren’t that soft. She’d love to pet a cat, too. Except most of the cats she knows are too far and are too busy doing important jobs, she’d better not distract them. Pity cats are so rare and prized, and only breed once or twice in their lives. There should be more cats. There should be cats for everyone. There should be a rainbow for each and every cat, too, because they deserve to walk and stand on rainbows. </p><p>He asks her some questions about how she’s feeling, and her replies are plain, short and to the point, but Aoife is a little sad that she needs to tense and get distracted from her pleasant state. He scribbles things with one hand and gently supports her with the other.  </p><p>She thinks of death. It’s a calming thought. If death is anything like this, she’s fine with facing it someday. She’s fine with facing anything. She’s fine even with facing—</p><p>And that’s when it starts. That’s when it comes back. </p><p>
  <em> This. This is what you need to remember.  </em>
</p><p>Her mind plunges deep into things she does not want to remember. Horrible things. Things that happened to her. It makes her watch. They’ve locked her in a pillory, and she’s naked, and they’re about to begin. I don’t want to watch this. Please, I don’t want to watch, I don’t want to. </p><p>Aoife whimpers and starts crying. Florion shifts in his seat and leans back to give her some air. He asks another question, but she doesn’t hear it. </p><p>How could they do this. It’s not just a crime against her, it’s a crime against nature. How can they be so disconnected. How can they be so. Evil.  </p><p>Please, no.</p><p>If I scream, they win. Maybe if I only scream once, it doesn’t count as them winning. Maybe if I don’t say a word, it still doesn’t count as them winning. </p><p>“My love?”</p><p>No one could ever love you. No one could ever care for you again. You can never love anyone. </p><p>There is only this. Only pain and despair.</p><p>“Aoife, this isn’t real. This isn’t real, open your eyes, please.”</p><p>Where is this voice coming from. There are only other voices, their voices. If she opens her eyes she will see a brand that’s already white hot in the brazier. Or the whip, no longer soaking in salt water, which means that it’s in <em> her </em> hand. Aoife’s better off not seeing.</p><p>I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to remember. Please, someone, take this away from me.  </p><p>Her entire back is on fire and she cries, and shrieks, and thrashes wildly. Unbind me, unbind me, unbind me, please, have mercy, please.  </p><p>No, never, ever, ever do what they say, always, always, always resist. </p><p>“Open your eyes. Look at me.”</p><p>But it’s him. It’s him. He’s allowed. </p><p>She screams to be let go. And he never lets go. Not for a single second. Not just because it's in a language he does not understand. But because it’s the right thing to do for him. To never let go. </p><p>“I got you, hold on. Hold on to me.”</p><p>And she does. But she wails, too. I was barely more than a child. How could they do this. How could they have kept on doing this. </p><p>
  <em> Do you see now?  </em>
</p><p>I did not deserve this. Any of this. We both know I didn’t. I was all alone and you were trying to protect me. You did not know how. But you tried. Were you trying to blend in with <em> them</em>, thinking it might save me? You don’t need to do this anymore. It’s fine. He can protect me now. My friends can protect me now. It’s fine. You can rest. Eve is gone. There is no more Eve. </p><p>There are no more chains, and no more whips, and no more ropes that no words, no pleading can unbind. There’s just one word that does this now, magically, and always will. I can trust. I can trust now. </p><p>
  <em> What do I do? What can I do? </em>
</p><p>Sleep. You should sleep. You are so tired. An angry vigilant guard animal, always expecting danger, pain and hunger, snapping at everything, and at every passerby, but there’ll be none anymore. And if there will be, others can take care of it. I can take care of it. You can sleep. </p><p>The images are gone, the words are gone, there is nothing but the pervasive <em> I did not deserve this. </em>She cries until there are no more tears. She shakes until she can’t move anymore. </p><p>He holds her through it all. </p><p>And to his side others come to help and to hold her, too. They are barely corporeal, their warp and weft: all light, interwoven, but she can feel their caring touches on her skin. She’s never met them before, but she knows that they truly care.  </p><p><em> Oh. So they </em> <b> <em>are</em> </b> <em> real.  </em></p><p>I did not deserve this, but it’s over now. It’s over now. I am stronger for it. </p><p>I will no longer be afraid.</p><p>There is horror out there, and there is evil, and there is injustice and wrong. But there is also this.  </p><p>She asks for something, and he brings a glass to her lips. Maybe one of the angels that came to console her is now dissolved inside it, because this is the most delicious water she’d ever tasted in her life. </p><p>She needs more. She needs to be in it. </p><p>She asks for something else, and he immediately lifts her up and takes her into the house.  </p><p>As she sits meekly on the edge, hollow and pacified, he draws a bath, undresses her and lifts her up again to lower her into the water. It’s tepid, but that's alright. Right now, she has no interest in things that are too hot or too cold. Aoife wonders why they haven’t gone for a swim in the ocean. Maybe they should when they come back. Then he could teach her to swim properly, too. Or maybe they shouldn’t come back. Maybe they should stay here and find a river or a lake. </p><p>Water feels nice. </p><p>His sleeves are soaked so he takes his shirt off. Florion washes her slowly, gently, with great care, and his touches are treasure, too. Every single one of them. </p><p>And time is not standing still, after all. It’s getting away from her now, although she tries to cling to each and every second. </p><p>“How long has it been since I—”</p><p>“Two to three hours.”</p><p>It felt like one minute and it felt like an eternity. </p><p>“Are you feeling better?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Want to lie down after?”</p><p>This would be a sensible thing to do. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Nothing hurts. Nothing that might be hurting. Other places hurt, new places, but she struggles to name them. </p><p>“But I might have just done an impolite thing.”</p><p>She doesn’t say it because she’s ashamed. Shame is a pointless, aimless, <em> stupid </em> thing that doesn’t matter and doesn’t even deserve sleep and rest, it deserves to be discarded or burned like uncompostables. Aoife is so impossibly, ferociously tired of it that she doesn’t want to spare a single thought or flinch to it. No, she only says it in this precise way because it’s… a reference to something funny but also a little sad, both at the same time? </p><p>Florion reaches for a towel and helps her up to dry her. “It’s fine, Ouhri’s mum is not here to berate you for it.”</p><p>The name feels like a tiny prickle. And she finally identifies what hurts. </p><p>“I miss him. Is it alright for me to miss him?”</p><p>...Is it alright for me to admit that I care for him, all of him, not just his magical fingers. </p><p>“Of course it is. I miss him, too. But he’s coming back. He always does.”</p><p>Florion lifts her up again and takes her upstairs, into the bed. She exhales through her mouth as her head sinks into the pillow. </p><p>“I think I actually… I miss… everyone. I miss the girls… Mahri especially. I miss the friends I had when I was little.”</p><p>Pain is oozing out of her every pore. But she doesn’t feel it. It’s dead now, it needs to leave.  </p><p>He lays down next to her. He doesn’t say a thing, simply caresses her face, but it's more meaningful than a thousand words. </p><p>But this one, she does feel. </p><p>“I miss my mum, I miss her so much.”</p><p>
  <em> Could you make it shallow, so that I can feel the rain.  </em>
</p><p>Her mother, too, did not deserve any of her lot. Her life has been hell, and then it ended, and nothing will bring her back, and no matter how many times Aoife remembers the “it’s all good as long as I have you”, it doesn’t get easier, or less painful to think of all the injustices, big and small. </p><p>He pulls her closer. She knows what he’s thinking. They are connected.  </p><p>“Do you miss your dad?”</p><p>“Always,” he says. “But I will always carry him with me.”</p><p>She looks into his eyes and understands. In every frilly vase, and intricate street light, and every piece of every glass mosaic. In every colorful marble. Even, probably, in every sex toy that’s also absurdly made of glass. Because why not. You need to carry them <em> on </em> in something. Aoife smiles. You need to live on. </p><p>In every act of kindness you witness. In every song she’d learned from her. In every river flowing past. Didn’t her mother once tell her, “It was a river that brought you to me.” </p><p>But it’s hard, and it’s still not enough. This is never enough when they leave, and when you understand that you can’t change a thing. </p><p>Aoife can’t help but say it. “I don’t want to live without you.”</p><p>He shakes his head. And he guesses, the way he always does. “You won’t. I will never leave you.” </p><p>And she believes him, although she shouldn’t because death always comes for loved ones and takes them away. But it gets a little easier to breathe. </p><p>Then she asks for her lyre and sits, naked, at the foot of the bed and plays a song for him. And for herself. There's so much love in his eyes that it seems to carry some notes for her. She feels herself thawing out with each and every one. </p><p>“Songstress,” he calls as the last chord still lingers. She lifts her gaze. “Move closer to me.” It’s understandable that he wants to touch her, she gets it now. Aoife puts the lyre away, lays down and lazily pulls herself up towards him to poke her nose smack-dab in the middle of the snowdrop. <em> Lazily </em>appears to be the only viable option right now, because she’s still very soft and her muscles do not want to put any effort into things. </p><p>“It should be a crime to smell as good as you do,” she mutters. </p><p>He strokes her hair and lets out a quiet laughing sound, and the snowdrop ripples a little. “We shall be, both of us, guilty of it then.” Lips parted, Aoife licks at the thin petals, once again noticing how there are three of them, and the laughter transforms into a low hum as her fingers squeeze his groin through the fabric. Aoife wants to get it out of the way, but she doesn’t feel greed or a need to rush. So she moves higher, crawling up his body, clinging to it, pulling herself up on one elbow again.  </p><p>What if they exchanged places for a while. He really likes to be in charge, and she likes it when he is, but what if, just this once. It’d be interesting. She tried before, but she was inexperienced, unsure of just about everything, and was rushing madly, and didn’t have full control, because he was rushing, as well, to meet her in the middle, and her thoughts were shouting incoherently. It’s so quiet now. And they know each other’s bodies and limits so much better.  </p><p>Florion shifts, hand crawling down her shoulder. </p><p>“No, don’t move,” she says. “Let me.”</p><p>And he stops moving for the most part. His fingers are still a little unruly though, but Florion clenches his fists to pacify them. </p><p>“Promise not to move until I tell you to?”</p><p>He nods. </p><p>“They’re really sensitive, aren’t they.” Aoife traces a fingertip around and then over his nipple. </p><p>He makes a muffled sound of agreement, eyes closed, so she licks at it until it’s stiff, ignores the other for now and keeps on exploring at her own pace. Aoife remembers the first time she did this, and how scared and unsure she was, and how overfull with doubt. It wasn’t too long ago, but it feels like an eternity away. His body used to scare her a little, like an unexplored land ahead would. Enough to stop and falter. Now, it’s familiar territory where only seasons have changed, and everything on it is in bloom, awaiting her curious touch.  </p><p>“I really love how you inhale when I do this,” she announces, dragging her fingernails down his abdomen. And predictably, he inhales on reflex, arching his back a little. There’s so much comfort in how he always reacts this way. </p><p>She tries other places, too, making use of the fact that her nails are a bit longer and sharper than usual. Around his chest and throat, and shoulders, and forearms, but, really, that first one is her favourite. She loves the way his long eyelashes flutter. How he mewls a little when she bends down to slowly, diligently create a promise of a bruise right below his collarbone, and then proceeds to leave a chain of bitemarks right down to the snowdrop. Not enough to break skin, but just enough to stay on it for a while. <em> I’m yours and you’re mine. </em>She loves the way breath catches in his throat and how his fingers get restless again, fighting for control. </p><p>Her head is buzzing a little but it’s another pleasant buzz. Her muscles are still disobedient, and she feels softened, but also uninhibited, in every possible way. She already misses the fascinating shapes, as well as the free-flowing, unimpeded thoughts, but can see that the fabric of his clothes is a simple regular fabric now as she unlaces his pants. The shapes are gone. However now she will always know that they were there. Now, she will always know the truth about other things, too. </p><p>“I really, really love you,” Aoife says to Florion and drags his breeches down. He groans a short response, bucking his hips up to help her, eyes still half-closed, jaw clenched. This is the sole movement he allows himself, and it’s only out of necessity. “I really love <em> you</em>, as well,” she says to his freed and rock hard cock, half-smiling. “Won’t you say hello? Come on, say hello.”</p><p>Florion’s voice is caught somewhere between a growl and a chuckle as he tenses his muscles to obey. Up once, up twice, and on the third <em> up</em>, she catches the tip in her mouth and sinks <em> down</em>, as deep down as she is able to, every single finger at work below, squeezing, stroking. </p><p>“Oh Aoifeee…” She giggles a little around his cock, releases it with a quiet ‘pop’ and then proceeds to ignore it, along with Florion’s wordless protests, completely and to follow the lines of lean muscles with nothing but a feather-light touch of her fingertip. Closer and closer to his manhood but not touching it, drawing new fascinating shapes, marveling at how his skin gets gradually darker, how his breath catches more and more, until he’s panting hoarsely, until he makes a strangled sound which echoes, bright and sharp, between her legs. </p><p>“Aoife…”</p><p>He’s never been good at this, at not doing anything, when he can, and clearly wants to, do so much. It must be really hard for him. And she’s no match for his strength: he could easily pull her in, or grab her, turn her, pin her down, hold her down, in a way that would leave her no room to maneuver or even move, and he so often does it, and she loves it. But she asked, and he trusted, and this fact almost makes her tear up in gratitude. But he should remember he doesn’t need to keep at it. The way he helps her remember. It’s just a game. </p><p>“You can use the word too, you know,” Aoife reminds him between little kisses placed on his lower belly. “Do you want me to stop?”</p><p>He snarls and utters a husky <em> no, </em> and in response she bites again, at the soft skin in his groin. Nearly the whole of him quivers, with fingers clawing at the sheets when he so clearly and desperately wants to claw at her. He throws his head back into the pillow, and the flush on his throat is the darkest of all. Aoife keeps on outlining every furrow and groove, even those she knows are ticklish to him, and he makes tiny breathless noises that don’t sound like him at all. He’s not simply warm anymore, he’s searing, his skin very nearly emits a wave of heat that she could bask in. </p><p>She takes him in her mouth again, without warning and not too deep this time, and licks at the frenulum softly, until he’s shaking and scraping his teeth. Then she lets go, and his knees jerk up, and he’s swearing under his breath. </p><p>Although it’s getting harder for her as well, although she wants nothing more than to feel that amazing, maddening stretch inside that makes her eyes roll back into her head, Aoife repeats the whole process anew, remembering, with a mix of tenderness and thrill, the way he did it to her. Their first time which he aimed to make as painless as possible for her, and succeeded. </p><p><em> “Is there a final point to this?” </em> Aoife muses. Does she stop when her own arousal that is gradually gaining in volume, becomes too loud? Is it just teasing for the sake of the process or is there a destination? </p><p><em> Process</em>, <em> sure, </em> she decides. <em> Trust. But also, the savage kickback when I allow this string to snap.  </em></p><p>The anticipation makes her quiver, too.</p><p>“Please, my love, please, o please...”</p><p>She cannot, does not want to keep on doing the same thing for long, not when Florion is begging: eyes nearly black, trapped knuckles nearly white. Yes, she could drag him to the edge of an orgasm and abandon him there, and she senses, knows that he would still honor his word and keep on trusting her, even if she does it more than once, but that is not what Aoife wants. </p><p>She still stubbornly reminds him, “Don’t move. Don’t you dare move,” as Aoife gets off the bed to rummage in the lower drawer until she finds what she’s looking for. Her knees are weak but holding. He doesn’t move but he almost wails for her. She knows he noticed what exactly she brought and the realization must have made it harder for him to keep his body in check. </p><p>Aoife returns, drops the jar behind her and decidedly saddles him. She can’t help but moan as she grinds against his cock, holding it under, pressing it to spots that ache the sweetest. It feels scorching hot.  </p><p>“Aoife, please, I want you so much… Please...”</p><p>“Don’t rush,” she announces dismissively, with a coy smile, and keeps on rocking, and grinding against the base of his cock where, she knows, he’s not that sensitive, at least not when the head is neglected. </p><p>Looking down, Aoife sees him helplessly leaking precum on his own belly. She flicks her finger across and sucks on it. He makes a pleading desperate sound, no longer using words. </p><p>On the surface, at least, she appears unfazed by this. “I love the way you taste… I love it so much. Now give me some more.”</p><p>She squeezes under the head only once, the way Ouhri did it, twisting a little, and catches a fat transparent drop on her thumb, and it goes right into her hungry mouth as well. Then another, and another. His speech is a string of swear words and gasps, his clenched fists are banging a chaotic rhythm against the sheets. Not looking into his face but knowing how greedily he watches her, is a knowledge almost unbearable in its intensity. </p><p>She lifts her hips a little, and then lifts them higher, gripping him at the base, positions herself, teasing, lingering. This is killing her a little, too, but in a good way. A promising way.  </p><p>“Please… Please…” </p><p>Aoife sinks down, aiming to relish every fraction of a second, to feel every quarter of an inch, to drink in his moans, his anticipation, his relief. Improbably slow, as deep as she can take him, until he’s very nearly sheathed inside her and she cannot fit any more of him. </p><p>His hands dart to her thighs but, halfway there, he remembers, moans helplessly and drops them. She knows what he wants. It’s a habit by this point. Even when she’s on top he’s usually gripping her tight, guiding her, impaling her, or slamming up into her, or both, in an insanely fast, bone-cracking rhythm that nearly always ends with her dropping down, helpless, screaming, coming around him, with his triumphant chuckle in her ear. Not yet. </p><p>She slowly rises, sinks again. And he’s <em> whimpering </em> in a so-not-like-Florion manner. </p><p>“I think it’s time we put your hand to some good use,” she whispers, grabs his wrist and brings his fingers to her mouth to lick them and coat them in saliva. She guides them to her ass and leaves them there, awaiting her command. And his eyes are glistening. “Stretch me,” she orders, holding her buttocks apart with both hands, still slowly sinking up and down. And oh, how eager he is to oblige, especially when she is so soft and relaxed. There is still some resistance, even in this soothed confident state she found herself in, but he ignores it, pushing two of his digits in at least halfway, lips forming a victorious smirk for a moment, and then parting. Eager to the point of brutality. She did not specify, “don’t scissor your fingers,” after all. </p><p>“Slower.”</p><p>He wordlessly obeys again, and she no longer sinks deep down, simply rocks a little on his cock, against his fingers in her ass, stretching the cheeks wider for him.  </p><p>“Just like this, flower… Just like this… Aaaaah… I wonder… How it would feel like… With two cocks inside of me… Like this...” He hisses at the confession, and she’s so proud of what she’s done all of a sudden. So proud of saying it out loud. It feels nice to finally say <em> things </em>without that horrible, spiky and jagged barrier to stop her. </p><p>They both could come even like this given time. But the sensations, although very pleasant, still seem tame and mild. She blames it on her continuous state and craves sharper ones, right this instant. And there is still not a hint of shame present to hinder her from acting upon them. </p><p>It’s time to let the string snap. Aoife bends down to whisper, “Alright. You can move now. In any way you want,” and braces for impact. </p><p>He does what he was capable of doing all this time, but held back simply because she asked him to hold back: jumps up, grips her, overpowers her in an instant, topples, turns her. She drops her shoulders and head into his warm pillow, and there is a smile on her lips, and even the sharp, unexpected, <em> brutal </em>slap that lands on her buttocks and makes her cry out, does not stop her from smiling.  </p><p>She’s had her turn. It’s his now. And it’s fine, she prefers it this way. </p><p>He slaps her buttocks again, opposite side now, not holding back, and she cries out once more, shuddering. <em> Context matters so much. </em> </p><p>“Hold your ass open. Hold it open, Aoife. Both hands. Stay like this.”</p><p>His voice is commanding again but slightly feverish, slightly broken. <em> I was the one who did this, </em> she thinks. It feels incredible to finally believe it, accept it, know it. </p><p>The whole of her tenses pleasantly in foretaste when the mattress shifts and she hears the jar’s lid clanking. She wishes time did not exist again as she counts the seconds till next he touches her. She’s so impatient for it. Florion is impatient, too, and greedy when he does. The cream feels numbing but also cold as he slides a finger into her ass again, and then two, parting her mercilessly. “That’s a good girl,” he breathes out, adding the third one with some effort. She bites her lip and doesn’t move. It’s still not that hard to relax. Much easier than staying in this position instead of sinking down, because she keeps on feeling somewhat boneless. </p><p>It’s unnatural, obscene and very nearly pointless, what he does and what he is about to do, and Aoife wants it. So. Much. </p><p>And then his fingers are gone, and there’s another string of seconds in which she whimpers, goading him on to come back and do things to her. She wishes she could turn and see him, too, but it’s impossible to do properly in this position, and the fact is driving her insane. </p><p>“So impatient,” he mocks, echoing her thoughts, but he’s there the very next instant and, instead of flinching, moving away, she leans back as he presses in a little. “Let me in.” A little and then, in earnest.</p><p>Except the same phrase uttered, there is nothing, absolutely nothing else in common with the muted, soothing, layered delight from the dream. It’s sharp and it hurts in an entirely new way, how he insistently parts her, stretches her, to the point where pain and pleasure are playing a rough vicious game of tug-o-war, with Aoife in the middle, and she is completely overwhelmed by both and by the contrast. </p><p>“How… much… in...” she breathes out. </p><p>“Third,” Florion answers, panting. “Gods. So tight. You can take it, can you?” He stops for a second, maybe only to catch his breath, because he doesn’t wait for a reply, and feeds another inch into her, and then another. “Come on, Aoife. Take it. Take all of it.”</p><p><em> ‘Don’t think I can!’ </em> would have probably been the right thing to say, and she would have said if the next moment he didn’t push in deeper, relentless, and any and all things to say and to think didn’t drown in a piercing scream.  </p><p>Until there is no more air left in her lungs, and she has to inhale and feel the stretch again. </p><p>“Don’t… not… don’t go deeper...” At least not yet. She needs time to adjust. </p><p>He can’t be brutal for long, and he never is. “Am I hurting you a lot?”</p><p>
  <em> Yes? No? Yes but please keep at it? </em>
</p><p>Aoife makes a string of sounds that she herself is having trouble interpreting, until a few coherent ones emerge, staccato. “Just. Fuck. Me. Please. Now.” </p><p>She cannot keep her hands in place anymore, so she lets go and drops them for support, and whines at how the feeling in her ass gets even more intense, and her hands don’t obey her properly, they’re completely limp, for a moment she barely feels them. </p><p>He starts moving, and it turns out the right thing to do because, almost immediately, all of the separate sensations roll into a single ball of fire and envelop her. </p><p>She cannot hear herself shrieking, it’s so loud and deafening. She only barely registers the insignificant suspicion that they, most likely, can hear her all the way back in Rheske. <em> So what. </em> </p><p>Here and there, one feeling or word still emerges up and out of the burning canvas. Friction. Heat. Fullness. Him.<em> His name. More.  </em></p><p>It feels unnatural, strange, agonizing, and it feels unbelievably good, all at the same time, and Aoife is in love with the feeling, and craves more of it, to the point where she, too, starts undulating her hips, not to get away from him but to meet him. This is sex almost exlusively just for the sake of sex, and it's obscene, and loud, and incredible, and his voice is a broken growl. </p><p>“Do you like it, Aoife? Tell me, do you like my cock in your ass?” </p><p>Her voice, an octave higher than she believed it capable of. </p><p>“Iloveit IloveitIlovei-i-i-t! Fuck me, please fuck me, as hard as you want!” He roars, pushing back deep, and she screams, and screams again as he pulls her back by the hair. “Fuck my ass, flower, use it, please, use it to come.”</p><p>
  <em> I want this, I want all of it, all of it. Greedy and hasty and rough sex, gentle and slow sex, I want it, and there is nothing bad in wanting it and having it with someone who wants you too.   </em>
</p><p>Her knees can’t hold her anymore and she sinks flat, taking him down with her. Once he has support of both of his arms, he is even more fierce and bestial, grinding down into her now, fucking her senseless. She’s screaming into the pillow non-stop, barely taking any breaths, and he doesn’t bother moving her head the way he usually does, to hear, because it’s so loud that he can. He can hear her. So well. </p><p>Her cunt is drenched as she reaches to stroke it, her fingers nearly slip and slide away, so she plunges them in for support, to rub against them. He lets out another broken cry, because he can feel them inside, she knows he does. </p><p>“So. Two. At. Once.” Each of these words, punctuated by his hips snapping in sharply. “Is this what you want, my sweet girl?”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>So wet it’s, if she’s completely honest, a little frightening.  </p><p>“Really? Two at the same time, huh?” he continues, and his hips continue, and do not stop. </p><p>“Yes, I want it, I want it so much!”</p><p>He muses, or pretends to muse. “Think we’d fit?”</p><p>“I’ll be a good girl, I’ll make it fit!”</p><p>A short bout of laughter rumbles in his throat.</p><p>“Then we’re going to <em> destroy </em> your holes, Aoife. You won’t be able to move after.”</p><p>She’s barely able to move even now, every muscle tensing on the second-to-last step before the final ascent, fingers working frantically. </p><p>
  <em> They are going to hear me across the ocean. Let them.  </em>
</p><p>It’s uncanny how hard she comes; the feeling crashes over her, heavy and all-encompassing, robbing her of limbs, breathing, time and space, anything and everything. </p><p><em> Blank. </em>  </p><p>~*~</p><p>It was twilight outside when she opened her eyes. The Valley sunset smelled of buckwheat flowers and mulch, and birdsong echoed in the forest. <em> Breathing</em>, and Aoife, with it.  </p><p>So she did get knocked out in the end. Not by the Little Guy. By a big one. </p><p>Florion was sitting at the foot of the bed, scribbling in his notebook again, and smiled as she made a sound and attempted to kick him with her foot. </p><p>He put the book away and moved closer to kiss her cheek. </p><p>“How do you feel?”</p><p>Aoife listened. Her mind was little more than a blank page. And her body, a ball of cotton. “Hungry, thirsty, and my ass hurts something awful.”</p><p>He smiled and got up. “I can help with all of these.”</p><p><em> And that’s one of the hundreds of reasons why I love you, </em>she thought, rolling over with effort. </p><p>Aoife listened some more. Something was missing. It didn’t hurt like other things do when they go missing. It took her a while to realise exactly what.  </p><p>It might wake up, disturbed by something, some nightmare or a loud noise. It might change its mind and come back to haunt her again. But now she knew exactly what to do if it did. </p><p>He brought back ointment (“Ow, ow, ow!” — “Sorry!” — “Stop smirking like this!”), then water (<em>sweet mother of mercy, my mouth is sandpaper</em>) and food. As she ate, too lazy, too relaxed to get out of bed this time, she tried to describe what he couldn’t have known, but words kept getting away from her. </p><p>The shapes, the figures, the breathing of the world, the thoughts and ideas that were no longer there, only leaving an aftertaste. He wrote it all down diligently. </p><p>“So… success?”</p><p>He nodded, smiling ear to ear. “Success.”</p><p>“I seem to remember you laughing. Like I told a joke. I don’t remember the joke. But you said something about flattery and numbers.”</p><p>Florion chuckled, flipped through the pages, found the right one, and turned the book for her to see. </p><p>“I took your thirty ounce just fine, can’t wait to find out if I can take your thirty inches,” Aoife read out loud and immediately started laughing. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps magic did not exist. Florion said he did not believe in it. She did not believe in it much, either. But it was so hard to accept that a simple plant could do all that, especially at first. Her mind, which felt shattered and broken before, now reminded her of a freshly plastered and painted wall with cracks in it filled, and imperfections and bumps smoothed out. Once more, she suspected that it might need repairing later, one day, but now Aoife had the tools and the material for it. Her body was doing well, too. She still felt weak the next day, although she’d slept soundly through the night, dreamless. But the day after, Aoife felt more invigorated than she did in a long time, maybe ever. Even though her moon blood came, and on time, too, so she was healthy after all. This time it did not feel as debilitating as it usually did, Aoife did not even have to use opy milk once. And, as it turned out, one really did not have to avoid sex during, if one did not want to abstain and enjoyed trying out different things. Although, perhaps, it was not such a good idea to make love in the bath when the latter was too small for two. But a couple of bruises meant very little now.  </p><p>Perhaps magic did not exist. But angels did. Aoife saw them with her own eyes and even drank one’s essence, in a way. She also understood why they’ve never answered any prayers nor granted protection before: angels were barred from human lands, unable to reach them. That’s what she’d sensed. It felt real.  </p><p>Perhaps magic did not exist. But the bonfire ritual felt like it now that it has granted her wish. “Doubt” was the sole word, the thing she’d willed to get rid of, and doubt was with her no longer. She was of a single mind about almost everything: deciding to do or say, and then doing or saying, instead of dwelling on it for hours, like she sometimes used to. It took her months, years, to make a small improvement which still did not feel like much, but somehow the Little Guy managed to push her forward at a break-neck speed. Other months, maybe years of progress, all skipped through, in a few hours. </p><p>Parts of her shame were still there. Some things she’d never get rid of, some things would never be normal to her, but it was fine if they stayed. They weren’t loud. The shame was no longer deafening. It was quiet and muted. </p><p>What was it all, if not magic? </p><p>“Something else,” Florion told her. “Something entirely different.”</p><p>“Why don’t you all do it? Instead of taking lamia from birth and becoming desensitized.”</p><p>“Actually,” he admitted, “I don’t really know why.”</p><p> </p><p>But Aoife thought she knew. This was not lamia. It did not do all the other things Florion had told her lamia did. It did not make her want to work her ass off for the greater good. She still was not in the least bit motivated to practice harpsichord, feeling glad that there were none around. Nor did it make her feel new, unexplored connections. No tethers or chains. Simply the knowledge that everything is connected. Just this. </p><p>Was it truly a success, then? Florion’d told her the Little Guy was supposed to cure cruelty. But Aoife did not have much to begin with so she could not tell. At least she could admit to herself that she’d always been kind. Not in a boastful way, but an objective one: a fact to be acknowledged without any doubt, and left alone. </p><p>Nevertheless, she kept asking herself various questions, painting pictures in her head, attempting to detach herself and be objective about them as well. What would she do if the Mother Superior stood before her completely defenseless and Aoife had a weapon? What would she do if it was one of her helpers? Or the Priory Father? Or the latter’s son? And the answer always was, nothing. <em> I would do nothing. I would walk away.  </em></p><p>It’s not that she doubted her answer per se. But it’s one thing to imagine your torturer appearing out of thin air in a peaceful place where everyone is your friend and would assist and protect you. It’s quite a different one to encounter a situation like this in real life. Different and improbable. </p><p>She was a willing test subject. She wasn’t the right one. </p><p>“I am confused about the result,” Aoife concluded. </p><p>“Yeah,” Florion agreed. “So am I.”</p><p>The nearest and only other human around here was Nayiro. She wasn’t cruel either, not really. Maybe only slightly, and only in regards to that boy who was so hopelessly and desperately infatuated with her. Aoife did not understand why he wouldn’t simply back off. </p><p>Maybe she did not know the whole picture. Maybe Nayiro was stringing him along in private, while publicly she did nothing but spurn him time and again. </p><p>So next, there was a conversation, and a lengthy description, cut short by Nayiro herself who said, without the question itself being asked, “I’m in. I’ll do it.” </p><p>Aoife opened her mouth and lifted her hand to say more but was immediately met by a, “I’d like to try smoking it, though.”</p><p>And this time Aoife volunteered to play the role of an observer. She was curious. </p><p>They settled on a blanket in the grass behind the stable while Florion was skulking inside and nearby, peeking at them from time to time. Aoife read his notes beforehand. They were detailed and comprehensive, containing a lot of things she herself did not remember happening or being said. She doubted she could write as fast and as efficiently, but he said it wasn’t necessary. She, nevertheless, armed herself with a handful of pencils and the very same big notebook. And also brought her lyre. </p><p>There was neither crying nor screaming, neither dirty jokes nor frequent questions. There was this: for about half an hour Nayiro sat, barely blinking, staring into the distance and humming from time to time, not saying a word. Then, this: after a while she started pacing, with Aoife following close behind but not bothering her. Then, this: a whole lot of pet names, hugs, scratching and chaotic brushing unleashed on the lysseji inside. Nayiro even kissed one on it's cold wet nose.  </p><p>Then she sat back down and asked for a song. Her voice was weak and indifferent. So Aoife sang her the one about the golden-haired girl. It did not seem like Nayiro paid any attention to the lyrics. A whole minute passed before she reacted. “It’s nice. I feel like I’m merging with the music. By the way, you’re nice too.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Aoife said and played another song.  </p><p>After the third one Nayiro announced, out of the blue and in one long, uninterrupted sentence, “I don’t really want him and I don’t owe him anything for his affections but I shouldn’t treat him like crap, he’s a nice boy.”</p><p>Aoife coughed to clear her throat. “Do you mean Hadrion?”</p><p>Nayiro did not answer. Instead she said, “I’ve been thinking. That old hag in grey must have been human, right?”</p><p>“Right,” Aoife replied, having no idea what exactly was meant by this. </p><p>Nayiro asked her to play some more so she did, simply plucking the strings in a repeating melody, which seemed to have the same positive effect as any well performed song. </p><p>After less than another half an hour elapsed, Nayiro stood up and stretched, looking completely sober and lucid, and proposed to go to the kitchen and get something to eat. </p><p>Florion joined them. </p><p>“Evidently faster when smoked,” he noted only for Aoife to hear. </p><p>Supper was still a while away but the cook spared a loaf of bread, as well as some spicy raisin jam, and goat cheese. </p><p>“Did you have any visions? Did you see the angels?” Aoife asked Nayiro after they settled down to eat.  </p><p>Nayiro raised her eyebrows, “Huh? I didn’t see no one,” and then proceeded to shove a chunk of bread into her mouth and chew it with eyes closed, proclaiming right after, “This is the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten.” </p><p>So that was a no. </p><p>Maybe they’d come only to those who really hurt and needed their help. Nayiro, all in all, seemed like an untroubled girl. She left to have an honest conversation with her suitor, and they went back to the cottage, hand in hand. </p><p>“You think the angels were just a hallucination,” Aoife said. Mostly as a means of teasing, not reproachfully. It would have been a very hard thing to believe for someone who did not witness what she did. </p><p>“I think I know nothing,” Florion replied and, after a brief consideration, heaved her up onto his shoulder while she laughed and pretended to struggle. </p><p>It’s been ten days since they received a short letter from Maeve saying that everything was safe, “but just in case” they should stay in the Valley for longer, until someone would come get them in person. No further details were included. It’s been a month since Ouhri left. He was probably in Rheske right now, and all they could hope for was that he was alright and that he’d understand. That someone would explain the situation to him. That maybe he’d have it in his heart to write something too and send it with a caravan. </p><p>“I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid,” Florion remarked. </p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>He waved his hand vaguely and shrugged, half-smiling. It meant, <em> I have a hunch. </em>Aoife poked him. </p><p>“I don’t know. Just… something stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>It must have been the bird, along with the fact that one of her earplugs has fallen out. Aoife woke up early and abruptly, and did not feel like trying to fall back asleep. The windowsill was empty, and it appeared to be late morning. And she was wide awake. So she went downstairs, ran the boiler, made and drank some tea, drew a bath. Once again marveling at how nice it felt when thoughts weren’t rushing anywhere. The bathtub was where Aoife lay when she heard the familiar voice and thought <em> well here’s your something stupid </em>even before she opened her eyes and jerked upright, smiling. </p><p>“I bet you thought you could get away from me that easily.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Implied Use of Enema (for health purposes), Use of Psychoactive Drugs, Bad/Complicated Drug Trip, Mentions of Abuse and Torture, Overcoming Trauma, Hallucinations, Thanatophobia, Light Angst, Topping From The Bottom, Anal Sex, Trip Sitting</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. The Caverns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Green guy tripsits and gets quality ass out of it.<br/>*Immigrant girl makes a lo-fi playlist for new friend.<br/>*Third wheel rolls back into the shop like a boss.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Those symbols they draw on dead bodies are messages they wish to pass to their ancestors. There is no vigil beforehand because the body needs to be laid to rest before it starts decomposing. There is a party after because they consider grief unhealthy. It’s really not that complicated. What’s complicated is, what precisely happens to the body after.” </em>
</p><p>“Ouhri!” she cried out, barely managing to stop herself from adding a half-reproachful, half-affectionate <em> florionesque </em> “come on!”  </p><p>Aoife had not expected to feel as happy to see him as she actually did. It was a peculiar mixture of excitement, disbelief, with a tiny bit of exasperation and guilt mixed in. While not knowing for sure, she estimated that they were about a hundred miles from the coast, so it must have taken him at least one night to get here. At least! Would his ship wait for him? For how long, and how much time would they then actually have together? She couldn’t claim to know him well, but she sensed it would have been a distinctly Ouhri thing to do: to come all this way for a few dramatic phrases and then head back for the coast in an hour, leaving her and Florion feeling confused and even more guilty. Oh well. At least he had his own style. </p><p>“Impeccable entrance,” Aoife said, smiling. </p><p>“Thank you, my lady.”</p><p>Ouhri’s face was covered in soot in places, in fact the entirety of him was dirty and he smelled of accumulated flamestone ashes or something similar. In one hand he held a jar of grape molasses, while fishing in it with the fingers of the other and then licking them very messily, getting sticky drops all over the floor. But otherwise he looked well. Not sad or lost but not too agitated either. Maybe a bit tired. </p><p>“Amazing stuff,” he proclaimed. Meaning mostly the contents of the jar but eyeing her all the while.  </p><p>There was no foam on the surface of the water. Aoife did not cover herself.</p><p>Yes, there were things she still did not feel like doing even after her close acquaintance with the miracles provided by the Little Guy. She still did not feel like spending a lot of time among crowds. Or pouring her whole heart out or, frankly, sharing any details of her personal life with people she barely knew, the way most aldamaari did it. Still did not feel like undressing in front of strangers and would probably never feel comfortable enough doing it. It was fine. All of it was fine. She was able to accept it now, at least partially. Without all the horrible screaming in her head. </p><p>And Ouhri wasn’t a stranger. </p><p>He finally mounted the jar on the edge of the sink and turned the water on. </p><p>Aoife lazily probed, “So how did you...”</p><p>Just then, he saw his reflection in a small mirror and his eyes went wide. </p><p>“Hold on.” Ouhri shoved his head under the tap, huffed, reached for a bar of soap while getting dark stains all over it, and started soaping up his face and neck. This went on for a bit. If it were to happen weeks ago, Aoife would have wanted to impatiently bombard him with questions all the while. Instead she leaned back and waited. </p><p>Sweet mother of mercy, despite everything he must have gone through to get here, she was so happy to see him.  </p><p>Ouhri, meanwhile, gave his head a shake, rubbed his face, opened his eyes.</p><p>“Is Flor still asleep?”</p><p>“Yes. I should wake him up, he’d want to see you.”</p><p>“We’ll do it together,” Ouhri said, smirking slightly. “In a bit.” He crouched next to the bathtub, bent down and kissed her. Now, all of a sudden, he was very greedy and impatient. And tasting of grapes. But she barely had any time to reciprocate properly, or to start thinking of implications and of <em> is this allowed </em> when he pulled away and murmured, “You know how someone was supposed to come get you.”</p><p>“Yes,” Aoife said, touching the tip of his nose with her finger. “Are you the someone?” </p><p>Ouhri nodded. “I volunteered. She thought you’d welcome a friendly face instead of some Grey Robe.” True. But he still did not say how exactly he got here and what was to happen. “Is there any juice left in the boiler?”</p><p>“I think so, w—” Ouhri straightened up and started undressing at breakneck speed. In a few seconds he swung his leg over the edge of the bath. “You won’t fit!” Aoife yelped. </p><p>He paused. “Not a very positive behaviour, my lady.” With this, Ouhri winked at her. </p><p>Aoife pulled her legs up to her chin to give him space, then immediately changed her mind and stood up. She was already quite clean and knew that whatever he imagined, he really wouldn’t fit into this bathtub with her in it. </p><p>“Something’s different,” Ouhri said as he lowered himself into the water. He brushed her thigh with the tips of his fingers as she got out and reached for a towel. This actually felt really nice. Really, really nice. Unencumbered. </p><p>“Different how?”</p><p>He hesitated for a bit then said, “With your tether.”</p><p>“Bad different?”</p><p>“No, just different.”</p><p>She wrapped herself in the towel and knelt next to the bathtub. </p><p>“I don’t have a tether, Ouhri.”</p><p>“Yes, you do.”</p><p>Aoife was still confused about everything. What was allowed, what wasn’t, who had to be present and who wasn’t, how it all was supposed to work and could it even work at all. She wasn’t head over heels for this man, but she felt immense affection for him. She didn’t find him that attractive, despite how countless men and women would probably stare at her wide-eyed, disbelievingly if she ever confessed it out loud, but she did find him very <em> trustworthy</em>. So Aoife simply decided to do what she felt like doing at that precise moment, which was to tell him that she’s missed him. </p><p>“I’ve missed you too.” And it was said in the singular. And then repeated in the plural. Aoife reached for soap to help him wash his hair properly. It really felt like it had soot and ashes in it. </p><p>“As for my tether or whatever it is. I’ll tell you all about it once you tell me what’s going on.”</p><p>“Where do I start?”</p><p>“Are the humans gone?”</p><p>“Long gone, as far as I know.” She sighed in relief. </p><p>“And the Butterfly? Is she supposed to wait for you?”</p><p>“Already trying to get rid of me, huh?”</p><p>Aoife stopped soaping up his hair and sighed deeply. “I’m not your mum, remember? Stop trying to manipulate me like this. You know that’s not what I meant.”</p><p>He pouted a tad and then said, “She is going to wait for me, yes. I’m to take you back as soon as possible but, from what I’ve gathered, you may return here in a bit.”</p><p>“To the Valley?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Why? Has the danger not passed?” She took a small basin and helped Ouhri rinse his hair, and the rivulets were murky and grey for a while. </p><p>“It did, I think,” he said when they were done. “She just assumed that you’d like to stay here. Till the end of summer or even longer. Maybe help with the harvest.” Aoife did not ask him who this “she” was, assuming it was Drifeo. “And you would, wouldn’t you? It is quite nice here after all.”</p><p>“It is,” Aoife agreed. “Very much so.”</p><p>“Been years since I’ve ventured this deep into land. I should have, maybe. I’ve actually arrived a while back, but I didn’t want to wake you so I sat on your porch and just… looked around. It’s beautiful. Then I got hungry.” He smiled mischievously. </p><p>So it wasn’t the bird that woke her up. It was Ouhri rummaging for snacks again.</p><p>“Would you want to stay here with us for a bit?”</p><p>She knew he could. Florion had already told her that Ouhri was allowed to skip a tour or two, seeing how he barely set foot on land for years. He was due for a long vacation if he wanted one.</p><p>But it did not seem like he did. Ouhri shook his head. “I don’t… No,” he replied, stumbling slightly. “I’m really better off at sea. Don’t know why, I just am. But… I’m only here to get you this time. After this… Business as usual.”</p><p>What he did not say out loud was still quite obvious. Ouhri passed her a loofah. </p><p>“I have an idea,” Aoife said, pressing on his shoulder to move him so she could scrub his back with it. “If it’s as you say it is, and we can stay here for the summer and the harvest, and all that. We’ll simply come meet you in Rheske every month and then return.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yeah. We’ll join a caravan or something. We can ride lysseji now. You did arrive here with a caravan, right?”</p><p>“No,” he said and, suddenly, he was smiling once more. </p><p>“Another balloon then?”</p><p>“I heard about that. Would never.” </p><p>“What then?”</p><p>Ouhri bit his lip again. Playful. “You’ll see. It is, quite possibly, the most abysmal way to travel, ever.”</p><p>“If it’s abysmal why are you smiling? Also why were you so dirty?”</p><p>The bath was very murky now, and Aoife reached down to pull the drain plug halfway, to change the water. She then turned the tap back on. Luckily, the boiler did have quite a lot of warm left in it. </p><p>“Not telling. You’ll see later.”</p><p>Aoife abstained from rolling her eyes, as she felt it would only egg him on. “When do we leave?”</p><p>Ouhri seemed disappointed by her reaction and lack of excitement, but composed himself quite quickly. “As soon as you’re ready. In a couple of hours?”</p><p>“Alright.” She made a move to get up but he caught her by the wrist. Aoife did not mind this. “What?”</p><p>“So,” he probed, “sleeping late then. Late night last night, huh?”</p><p>And his smile said the rest for him. </p><p>“Asleep by dawn, I think,” she murmured and placed her hand on his chest because that was something she felt like doing. His heart was hammering. </p><p>“What kept you up?” In the plural. Voice, no louder than a whisper this time. Aoife moved her hand lower, and the whole of herself, closer. </p><p>“Do you want specifics again?”</p><p>“I want specifics always.”</p><p>So what was allowed? Sure, maybe not this. But Aoife allowed for it to be allowed. </p><p>“May I?” she asked, fingers diving underwater. </p><p>He nearly choked on the “God yes!”</p><p>“Well,” Aoife said, squeezing her fingers around his manhood and feeling the thrill rise even higher in response to the sound he made, “we wanted to check if we could time something perfectly.”</p><p>With eyes half-closed he was breathing through his mouth now. </p><p>“What was the something?”</p><p>Aoife couldn’t see clearly, what with water still being a bit muddied by soap and soot, but exploring without seeing was fun too. She’d had a look plenty of times before but never had a touch or a taste. His felt different from Florion. It wasn’t as thick, but it felt longer as she moved her fingers up and down, squeezed even harder and twisted her wrist a bit. </p><p>“The something was, if he could come in my mouth at precisely the same moment I climaxed on my fingers.” Aoife barely managed not to giggle at the plaintive mewl that escaped him. </p><p>“Oh God that’s so hot.”</p><p>“We’ve managed it once before, by accident, you see,” she announced matter-of-factly, continuing to stroke him. “So we decided to repeat it on and with purpose. In the name of science.”</p><p>He threw his head back for a few moments. His throat was flushed, and she kissed it briefly. </p><p>“D-did you manage it last night?”</p><p>“Yes,” Aoife whispered, relishing the moan that followed, and twisted again, running her thumb over the head. She felt a little thrilled, a little stupid and a little dizzy all at the same time. But not as dizzy as he did. Aoife giggled in earnest, and Ouhri whined in response, curling his own fingers over hers, clenching them, speeding up, guiding her. She thought of stopping him but then changed her mind. This way felt even better. </p><p>So instead she leaned closer to whisper, “I love it when he slowly pumps his cock right above my open mouth. Leaking precum on my tongue. I go crazy when he does it.” Ouhri, panting, whined quietly. “I like it when he doesn’t rush. I like to take him in my mouth, too. Did you like it when you did it?”</p><p>“N-never had the pleasure,” he managed, “but I am absolutely going to in a few minutes… aaah, oh God... if you don’t mind.” </p><p>“I don’t mind.”</p><p>In fact, she looked forward to seeing it. </p><p>“God, Aoife, something <em> did </em> happen to you.” Ouhri moaned again and sped up, all but throwing his hips up into their conjoined fingers. </p><p>“Nothing happened to me. I’m just being myself.”</p><p>He was quite loud. She kissed him deeply as he was coming. Partly because she wanted to, and partly to muffle him for now: she was really looking forward to waking Florion up in the way Ouhri all but proposed they do it.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking about you, both of you, a lot,” Ouhri said as they touched foreheads and she waited for him to catch his breath. </p><p>“What have you been thinking about?”</p><p>“A lot of really nice things. Me inside of you, him inside of me, variations of it. Ropes, toys, baths. But also…” he trailed off and smiled sideways. Aoife thought she knew what he wanted to say. </p><p>“Chasing rabbits and goats.”</p><p>He nodded. “And playing dumb games.”</p><p>“And exploring ruins.”</p><p>“Yes. And sleeping next to you. Just… sleeping next to you.”</p><p>She nuzzled his cheek and kissed it. He still smelled a little like the sea. Maybe this smell permeated the whole of him, forever. Maybe it was not such a bad thing, but Aoife still felt a bit sad about it. </p><p>Then she helped him up and passed him a towel. They went up into the attic, naked and on tiptoes, but the old stairs still creaked. Luckily, Florion’s earplugs seemed to be in place. </p><p>They approached the bed from two sides and exchanged glances. His gaze was mischievous and, she imagined, so was hers. </p><p>Aoife tried to not shift the mattress too much when she climbed it. Wasn’t the easiest thing to do with how thick and soft it was, but Florion still didn’t wake up. Good thing he almost always ended up sleeping on his back, Aoife thought, beaming down at him, and gently pulled the thin blanket off. </p><p>Whenever she woke him up like this she’d start really slow, giving him a chance to come to and adjust, savoring the feeling of his manhood slowly coming alive in her mouth. So that was what she did this time too, flicking her tongue just a little initially, fingers barely touching his thigh. Except this time, as she did it, she looked up at Ouhri. And his eyes were almost black and no longer translucent grey. Aoife was trembling with excitement. </p><p>She never could have imagined anything like this being possible without some sort of bitterness, or jealousy, or a whole mountain of other negative emotions. </p><p>But there were none. She was entirely unprepared for how pleasant it all would be. She felt warm, and not only because of arousal and encroaching daytime heat. </p><p>Florion groaned, arm shifting. Coming alive. </p><p>“Go on,” she whispered, stopping for a second and beckoning to Ouhri in case he felt reluctant. He did not need another invitation. </p><p>Except what followed made her forget her arousal and endearment, replacing them entirely with shock: Ouhri leaned down, opened his mouth and, without further ado, somehow made Florion’s cock disappear in it. He bobbed his head up and back, with Aoife simply staring at him, her own mouth agape, barely registering a slowly awakening hand crawling down her shoulder. </p><p>“How the hell do you do this without gagging?!” she squealed. </p><p>“What...” Florion managed to mutter, and then another groan followed, because Ouhri did that disappearing magic trick again. And again. And again. Florion was wide awake the next second, looking at the both of them in disbelief and reaching, on reflex, to unplug his ears. </p><p>Ouhri emerged for air and smiled up at him. Aoife felt like squealing once more, just for the hell of it. Florion’s hand was tangled in her hair now. It was shaking slightly. </p><p>“To answer your question,” Ouhri said without even a hint of hoarseness, stroking Florion just under the head, “I do not gag because I’ve had years and years of practice on pricks way bigger than this one.”</p><p>“I hate you,” Florion croaked, leaning back onto the pillow and smiling ear to ear. “I fucking hate you so much.” In the singular. </p><p>Ouhri did not answer because his mouth was busy, and Florion did not curse again for a while because he was now having trouble breathing. </p><p>“Aoife… Come… Here…” he whispered instead, panting feverishly and clawing at her thigh.  </p><p>“Maybe later!” she replied, unexpectedly loud, trying not to blink. Right now she wanted to see his face, not sit on it. And also to see this. <em>What. The. Hell. </em>Ouhri switched to using his hands along with his lips and <em>sweet mother of mercy,</em> <em>are you allowed to squeeze this hard?! </em>Practiced, efficient, nearly brutal. His cheeks even sunk a bit. </p><p>And then the bastard had the nerve to lift up his gaze and wink at her, with his mouth full of Florion’s cock. Aoife gasped and laughed nervously. </p><p>Ouhri was so good at this. Stupidly, amazingly, indescribably good at this. He’s been at it for no longer than a minute, and Florion was already wheezing, shaking, tensing in that unique, unmistakable way except this time, with filthy curses rolling off his tongue along with the groans. Aoife was pretty sure that nothing she ever did to him with her lips and tongue was even remotely capable of making him look and <em> sound </em>like this. </p><p>It was mesmerizing. </p><p>Still not jealous. Maybe a bit horrified. And considerably excited. She wanted to learn what this mouth was able to do to her. </p><p>“Fuck…ing… bastard… I’m…” </p><p>No more than a minute and a half. </p><p>Ouhri was humming. And then he swallowed. And then he released Florion’s cock with a loud ‘pop’, coughed restrainedly and proclaimed, wiping his lower lip with his thumb, “What have they been feeding you here, Flor? You taste amazing.”</p><p>Aoife pulled him into a kiss, plunging her tongue deep into his mouth to get a taste, too.  </p><p>“He tastes normal,” she said right after. Because he did. </p><p>“I know normal and this isn’t normal. This is, I don’t know, a permanent diet of grapes and clouds and poetry?”</p><p>Florion snarled and crushed his arms over them, pulling them both down. Aoife kissed his flank gently and looked up at Ouhri from behind it. The shock and awe have worn off, but her arousal did not. She still very much craved release. She craved the same treatment. </p><p>“I will ask the questions,” Florion muttered. “And maybe do more than that. But not before I venture into the bathroom and back. Just… Fucking hell.” </p><p>He kissed her briefly on the crown, heaved himself off the bed and ran down the stairs. </p><p>They looked at each other. “So, uhm, is your mouth very tired?” she asked timidly. The very next second, without giving a worded response, Ouhri had her by the hips, rolling her onto her back, lifting up and forward, to the point where her bent legs were almost reaching her head. Oddly enough, it was not that uncomfortable. It was sudden and, even in this state, it was shocking to see her own most intimate regions like this. If it were to have happened a few weeks ago, she’d maybe wriggle out, too ashamed. She froze instead, feeling blood flow down to her head, making her even more dizzy, and staring up at him. He wasn’t doing anything, just smirking, hovering right above her, supporting her lower back on his lap and <em> looking</em>. </p><p>Then he spread her nether lips with two fingers, and she squealed in reflex. </p><p>“I'd like to bind you like this next time. Makes you so open,” he mused, pressed his lips together and delicately blew on the pink and the wet. His breath felt as cold as ice, she must have been searing down there, the difference in temperature seemed radical.  </p><p>Aoife, too, now felt the urge to call him a name, although she’d have meant it in the most positive sense. </p><p>“I thought you’d just latch onto me like you did him!” she muttered, shivering helplessly. Ouhri dipped two fingers inside her ever so slightly and drew them out, scissoring them, no doubt to show her how wet she was. <em> I can see it myself, thank you very much! </em>Aoife wanted to squirm at him. </p><p>“Mm, no. Everyone needs a special approach. Here’s one for you.”</p><p>He extended his tongue and drew it gently across her clit once, twice. Aoife tried to keen but her lungs felt a bit crushed in this position. Also, she wanted to close her eyes, but couldn’t look away from how he was circling his tongue around and around and around, tantalizingly slow but firm, with his thumb drawing smaller circles around her asshole. </p><p>His mouth, oh heavens. It did clamp down on her once or twice, completely, drinking her in, with the tongue in non-stopping motion, like a well oiled clockwork mechanism. But never for long enough for her to tense and come. He was too unceasing and thorough to be called a tease, but she still felt like calling him names. “Dramatic bastard” and “harlot” among them. She couldn’t. Instead she locked her arms under her knees and just gave in.</p><p>And this picturesque scene was the one Florion came back to. </p><p>“I get that you were rushing but you’ve made such a mess in there, the bathtub’s <em> grey</em>, and who the hell leaves open jars on th—”</p><p>He stopped talking and gave them one long appraising look, then resolutely climbed the bed accompanied by Aoife wheezing and frantically reaching for him just as he did for her only a few minutes ago, leaned down, both palms spread over her inner thighs, and joined his tongue with Ouhri’s from the other side. Blocking everything from view. </p><p>Aoife was quite positive right away that she’d faint from arousal and the cacophony of sensations, and of a sudden sharp awareness that <em> Two, it’s two tongues between my legs, I'm locked between two men with my ass up in the air and I want this to last forever and..</em>. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time. Probably no more than ten seconds. </p><p>They lowered her down as she was still quivering and sobbing out the aftershocks. And they were chuckling. </p><p>“I hate. You both,” Aoife announced between breaths. </p><p>“Splendid,” Ouhri said, licking his lips. “We all hate each other.”</p><p>She banged her fist against the sheets which was one of the very few motions Aoife felt capable of at the moment, “I hate you both, and now I need a nap.”</p><p>“So take one,” Florion offered, smiling and untangling her hair carefully. </p><p>“Can’t. He’s taking us back to Rheske.” </p><p>He turned to Ouhri. </p><p>“Just for a day or two… You can get back here after.”</p><p>“Humans still around?”</p><p>“No, everything’s safe.”</p><p>Florion squinted at him. </p><p>“There’s something you’re not telling. Actually, there is a lot you’re not telling.”</p><p>By the silence that followed Aoife realized that he was right. </p><p>Even in her besotted state she still thought, <em> how does he do this every time</em>. </p><p>“I really did not want to kill the mood. I should have but I didn’t want to,” Ouhri whispered, lowering himself on the bed next to her. “Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Florion replied. “Is it that bad?”</p><p>“The High Priestess is dying,” Ouhri said after a pause, and his voice was hollow. “Maybe already dead.”</p><p>Her and Florion exchanged looks. It did cause her pain to hear this, but not as much pain as she’d have expected. They’ve talked about the situation at length in the preceding days. How Drifeo seemed very frail and <em> fading, </em> in a way. How Ionas implied she did not have much time left. How she insisted she was fine when she clearly wasn’t, how Florion accidentally caught her taking medication meant for very elderly people who were at risk of having a sudden stroke. </p><p>They expected this, tried to prepare themselves. But it still hurt. </p><p>And she also knew by now that Florion felt much as she did in regards to death. He had a lot of trouble believing what most of his kin believed. That death was not the end. </p><p>“So did she… She wanted to say goodbye? Is that why we’re to go back?” Aoife probed cautiously. </p><p>“She’s unconscious and they said she’s not going to wake up. So no. The reason why you need to get back is… Entirely different.” He hid his face in her shoulder and sighed deeply. </p><p>Florion shifted slightly on the edge of the bed. “Ouhri...”</p><p>“Ouhri, what’s wrong?” Aoife reached for him. It felt like he was about to cry except, Florion’d said, sober Ouhri didn’t cry. </p><p>“There’s this new girl. She’s to take Drifeo’s place. She basically already has. And she said they need you there because they’re testing you,” he muttered, voice muffled against her skin. “They’re testing you as soon as possible. And if you pass... Aoife.”</p><p>“Damnit,” Florion said. </p><p>She understood. This whole situation, this whole <em> thing </em>between them was pretty much still in the air weeks ago, when she learned the truth about the dreamers and herself. But seeing how all three of them were now sweaty and stark naked, embracing on the bed in broad daylight the way they were… And considering what Ouhri said before this… And how she felt about it all now… </p><p>He couldn’t give them a lot, which wasn’t his fault. And he took very little. He did not want to stay on land, never would, that much was certain. But he did tell Florion he wanted something meaningful. His gifts implied <em> something meaningful. </em>Even if the latter meant, familiar arms to come back into for a day. Solid ground in a figurative sense. </p><p>For a moment Aoife felt like giving him some hope. She wanted to tell him that maybe she wouldn’t be chosen because, all things considered, she was still a very mediocre musician, and weren’t usually only the best “chosen to serve”? Plus she was human, that probably wasn’t a point in her favor, right? So she’d be told no, and then she’d be able to both visit Florion properly, sinking into his dreams and retaining her memories, and to meet Ouhri and pass him messages during winter, and keep him company while he was in Rheske, and maybe even hop on the Butterfly for a month as a passenger, to be with him for a while, and to see Iquinous and all those other places along the coast on the way to it, if he felt like it was possible, if he wanted her to. </p><p>But Aoife knew to trust her hunches. It was a lesson she’d learned from Florion. She simply stroked Ouhri’s hair. </p><p>“What’s the new girl’s name?” she asked. <em> If we’re wrong about this then maybe, just maybe, I am wrong right now…  </em></p><p>“Maeve,” Ouhri said and added, as Aoife’s heart contracted painfully, “I’m being stupid about it. It’s just three months instead of one, so what. I’ll live.”</p><p>He wasn’t being stupid about it. He could have had anyone, anyone he’d have wished, but wanted only them, and it wasn’t his fault too. She still remembered quite clearly how devastated, hollow and <em> broken </em>he looked as she accompanied him up the Road of Steps on the day they met months ago, and that was before he asked, dared, decided to try. </p><p>He felt a little like this now.  </p><p>Aoife embraced him tighter and pulled him to her chest, with Florion plummeting down from above, hugging both of them almost painfully hard. </p><p>“Fuck this,” he announced. “Fuck this and fuck Kenn.”</p><p><em> I wonder if it’s possible to kill a god</em>. <em> Or at least punch him really hard, </em> Aoife thought half-distractedly. Out loud she said, “Let’s just… Let’s take this one day at a time. Or, in this case, one month at a time. We still have a few. As for the whole dreamer thing… We should get dressed and go. I want it out of the way as soon as possible.”</p><p>“Alright,” Ouhri muttered.</p><p>Florion said, “Agreed. Let’s do this.”</p><p>They did not warn the cook about a lunch guest, but Ouhri told them it was fine because they should eat very little anyway. “With the speed we’ll be going at… You’ll wish your stomach was as empty as possible.”</p><p>Aoife winced, alarmed at the prospect. “We’re not going to fly again, right?”</p><p>“You’ll wish we were.” </p><p>Dramatic, refusing to say exactly how they were to get back, implying that they will like it and hate it at the same time. As if he was purposefully stirring them up. Florion seemed unfazed by this, smiling one of his calmest smiles and not taking even a tiny nibble off the bait. Having had years, decades of experience, he probably knew the best way to handle Ouhri’s peculiar behaviour. So Aoife followed his example.  </p><p>She was still trying to get a feel for Ouhri, for what made him tick. On one hand he did seem overly fragile, sensitive and manipulative, on the other, it did not feel healthy to walk on eggshells around him because of this. She did not want to. She decided she would try not to. </p><p>In the end she openly told him about the Little Guy and some other things. He seemed to agree that the figures were angels or spirits, and that the Little Guy was magic. Florion did not argue or actively interrupt, but groaned a little, so he still got called “oaf” and “god of dads”. </p><p>While they were folding some clothes into one backpack, Ouhri said, “Don’t forget your key, Flor.”</p><p>Florion’s eyebrow twitched, but he replied, “Very well.”</p><p>She knew about the key now, too. She knew the locked passage led into the open cavern where all the “experimental” glasshouses stood, along with the ones that supplied the whole town with lamia. She knew that quite a lot of people had these keys, including dreamers, caretakers, some of the clergy, as well as a few of the couriers who brought in compost. She knew that this lock allegedly wasn’t a precaution against thieves, but against curious children looking for a new place to play in.  </p><p>Ouhri also said to take kerchiefs to cover their mouths and noses, and to wear clothes they did not mind staining. </p><p>Aoife expected him to take them to the road or offer to take a transport to the village. Instead he led them into the forest through a thin, winding path up the mountain. </p><p>She felt so curious that she was about to give up and ask him again when he suddenly announced, “I want a pet name too.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“All these names you call each other. Flower, songstress, treasure… May I have one too? Just… please, not pumpion.”</p><p>“Captain Slyboots,” Florion immediately announced, smirking, and got a considerable nudge in the flank. </p><p>“Moonlight,” Aoife said. Ouhri froze and looked back at her. </p><p>“Moonlight,” Florion agreed. </p><p>There was just enough time for her to notice a tiny smile tugging at Ouhri’s lips before he turned away and went on walking. </p><p>“I'm not looking forward to this experience,” he confessed after a while, “but at least this time I'll be with you.”</p><p>They saw a pronounced clearing ahead, with a vertical rock wall visible behind it. There was a man there. Still young, maybe in his early forties, but it was so hard to tell with them. Wearing, although they were barely recognizable beneath the dirt and soot, baggy grey robes. </p><p>Florion stopped dead in his tracks. “What is he doing here?”</p><p>“Waiting for us. Impatiently, I assume. I arrived with him.”</p><p>“In this case,” Florion said, “thank you for taking your sweet time. I mean it.”</p><p>The caretaker seemed untroubled by the hours of waiting though, or by the state of his own clothes. He seemed untroubled, period. He sat on the ground, eating nuts from a bag on his lap, one by one, cracking them with some kind of metal instrument, in a steady rhythm, throwing the shells away carelessly, all with an absent expression. Now that Aoife thought about it, had she ever seen a caretaker who’s expression was not blank and absent?.. </p><p>Upon seeing them he stood up and said, “This way.” No greetings, no questions, nothing. </p><p>He led them to what she once again assumed was a thicket, but this time Aoife knew better. There was grating behind it, and there was a lock. The caretaker used his own key though. He let them through and locked the gate in complete darkness. Aoife fumbled for a hand to hold, and found one, and then another. </p><p>The caretaker lit a lamp. This time, the corridor did not lead into an open space. It wasn’t much of a corridor at all, just some sort of an antechamber, with some kind of metal rail in the center of it, leading away into a large opening in the wall on the opposite site. Upon this rail stood… something. </p><p>“Is this a minecart?” Aoife asked no one in particular. </p><p>It had the shape of one. She’d seen them in illustrations, once even with miners next to them for scale. Except, these appeared to be much bigger and divided into two sections, each large enough to fit at least two people. And it, as well as the rail, was made of solid metal. Silvery, smooth metal. </p><p>The caretaker climbed into the front section. “One with me, two in the back,” he said.</p><p>“Nope,” Florion answered. “You’re on your own, pal.” </p><p>The man seemed unfazed by this and beckoned to the second section. They all climbed in, with effort. </p><p>“Better sit or even lay down,” Ouhri told them. So they did, dipping below the metal edge, huddling together, Aoife in between. “Cover your noses and mouths,” he added, pulling up a kerchief from his pocket and tying it around his neck. They did that too. “We’re ready,” Ouhri announced to the caretaker right after. The latter blew out the lamp, plunging them all into complete darkness. Next, there was a clang from up front. Next, the cart was moving. Slow at first, grating, screeching on the rail. </p><p>“What’s running this bucket,” Florion muttered. There was no engine on it, no levers, nothing, Aoife did not even notice the supposed wheels underneath. Were there wheels? Or one wheel? It was so dark. </p><p>Whatever it was that ran the thing, the latter was gaining speed. And gaining. And gaining. </p><p>“Now’s probably a good time to tell you it will take no more than an hour.”</p><p>“What?!”  </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Aoife only made an undefined muffled noise in response, clinging to them in the darkness. The air was stuffy here, blowing small stinging particles of what must have been coal into their faces. They were, unmistakably, in a tunnel that ran under the mountain, hence all the soot. Her eyes were already starting to sting, and she hid her face on Florion’s chest. It made things even worse, because his chest was getting slowly covered in that black dust as well. So she simply shut them and pulled the cloth over the entirety of her face. What’s the point of keeping them open if the darkness was absolute? Except… </p><p>“How is he steering it?” she asked. And who built it? And why even Florion knew nothing about it?</p><p>“I have absolutely no idea,” Ouhri answered. “Magic?”</p><p>“I don’t think he’s the one steering it,” Florion grumbled. </p><p>Ouhri attempted to reply but choked on soot, coughed, then seemingly decided to stop opening his mouth. In fact, all of them did. The “cart” was going at such a dizzying speed and in such impenetrable darkness and dirt that talking seemed counterproductive. The tunnel was uneven, it rose and dropped from time to time, and each of the dips, although smooth, made Aoife feel slightly sick, in more ways than one. Her stomach was turning, she regretted eating even as little as she had, and her legs and behind were slowly going numb on the metal, and she would have much, much preferred flying. </p><p>This place reminded her of a blackcell. Aoife didn’t see the ceiling but felt it overhanging dangerously low. Didn’t see the walls but felt them pressing. She found a hand in the darkness, squeezed it and pushed the thoughts away. This felt tolerable as long as she had someone to embrace and be embraced by. </p><p>Ouhri came all this way with an uncaring stranger. He hadn’t seemed scared, simply uncomfortable. He had no context. She hoped it would remain this way forever.  </p><p>Aoife thought of cave-ins, and pushed this thought away as well. Then she thought about Drifeo. This was a painful thought too, but not anxiety-inducing. Drifeo was already old when they met, although not as frail. She’d taught Aoife the very first words in her language, and one of them was “welcome”. Did Aoife know her that well? She did not think so. Drifeo was always kind but never condescending. Always reserved but never unfair and rude. But was hers a life well lived? It was certainly long, but was it happy? What were the things that she loved, things that brought her joy, besides music and her work? Did she remain single out of a sense of duty, or… The truth was, Aoife did not know her at all. It was too late to learn now. She squeezed her fingers tighter, deciding resolutely that, no matter what happened, she’d remain friends with Maeve if she could help it, and do everything in her power to learn everything there was yet to learn about her. </p><p>There were no turns, the tunnel felt very straight. It was a shortcut but no telling how short, precisely. By the point when the cart finally started to slow down it felt like, perhaps, an hour had elapsed. Or three. Or less than an hour. Unclear. Aoife moved the cloth away and saw light straight ahead. </p><p>The cart came to a stop on what must have been the north-eastern side of the gargantuan cavern, the rail ended mere feet away from a bunch of glass houses. The light nearly blinded her. Not only the meager one from above: there were dots of it, round and blazing, inside every one of the greenhouses. They made her think of moonlight towers. But Florion did say that these were not powered by “electricity” but, most likely, by Kenn himself, although Florion was not exactly sure of it. A god shining his light upon a bunch of lamia, tomatoes and poison. Delightful. </p><p>She saw the metal staircase too, and it took her a bit to realise, as she was getting up and shaking the soot off her clothes (no use), that it was a different one. The opposite one. Not a trick of the light, after all. </p><p>The caretaker simply left, disappearing in between glass walls in a matter of seconds. </p><p>Aoife turned. There were other maws, other tunnels nearby. She stared into the impenetrable darkness of the one behind them, but Florion stepped in, shielding her from it. </p><p>“Let’s just get out of here,” he said. He led them around the greenhouses. It was a considerable distance to cover after sitting, hunched, in a rattling metal cart for an hour (or half an hour? or was it fifteen minutes? why was it so hard to tell?), but they made do, slowly. They still weren’t speaking that much on the way to the dreamer house, even Ouhri was unexpectedly silent. He did not ask if they liked or hated the experience, which was good, because Aoife had no answer to this hypothetical question. She liked the balloon in the end. This, despite how fast and practical it turned out to be, she was torn about.  </p><p>Maybe they were still a little shaken. Maybe they thought of what was to come. This “test”, the prospective result of which was still very much a mystery. </p><p>Or maybe there were parts in all three of them that felt uneasy in advance. Another hunch. </p><p>Something wasn’t right with the dreamer house. The front door was propped open by a chair, and a sheet of paper was nailed to it. “Bring a stretcher and check the sitting room,” it said. </p><p>“What...” </p><p>Ouhri shook his head faintly. “A stretcher, why?”</p><p>Florion resolutely stepped through the door. “I’ll go alone.”</p><p>“No you won’t,” the two of them answered in unison. </p><p>They had no stretchers but they went in nonetheless. </p><p>There was no one there but Ionas. He laid on the long-suffering couch, a tiny smile on his lips, arms folded on his chest. The latter was moving, but barely. Florion went to check on him. </p><p>“Hold on, is that the Traveler?” Ouhri asked after a few seconds. </p><p>“Yes,” Florion said. “Just… I’m not sure you… Damn it.”</p><p>Aoife darted to the table upon which she noticed a pile of unsent letters. She was already starting to feel numb. Consequence in before the reason.  </p><p>The letters were all addressed to people in Beruza, people whose names were unfamiliar to her. Except for one. On the envelope it just said, “To whomever finds me.” And it was unsealed. </p><p>A faint crunch sounded under the sole of Florion’s shoe. He looked down. </p><p>“Just an empty fla—” Ouhri paused, expression flattening. And they all noticed that there were several flasks. All empty, all with residue. </p><p>Florion wiped his mouth with his palm. “He drank my whole supply of silverhaze.”</p><p>Aoife turned. “So he’s...”</p><p>“Dead,” Ouhri finished, dumbstruck, and took a step back. </p><p>“Sleeping. But he’s not going to wake up. It was my whole supply,” Florion repeated dully.  </p><p>“Why is it when something happens,” Ouhri said suddenly, “it’s everything at once.”</p><p>“Gods be damned.”</p><p>Aoife ran her eyes over the letter. “It’s a suicide note,” she muttered quite soon. </p><p>She was certain of it, despite the fact that the man was not yet dead. Because the letter ended with the words ‘<b>Please grant me the honor of going with her’.</b></p><p>“He wanted to die with Drifeo.”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>With her heart feeling like lead she remembered Coris flatly saying something along the lines of, “he won’t need another ride.” Coris knew. He brought his old friend here and left, knowing that said friend was planning on killing himself. How was this normal?! She knew the aldamaari believed that death was not the end, but she still had so much trouble accepting the fact that this idea was so widespread and accepted, and treated as if it was nothing. Where was all the proof?! And Ionas was a human, did he believe in it too? Or was it some kind of allegedly meaningful gesture, to die along with the woman he used to love? </p><p>Florion darted to the kitchen and came back holding some phial, and was muttering curses under his breath as he poured its contents into Ionas’s mouth. It was of no use. Aoife knew it was of no use. Florion probably knew it too, but he did things, stubbornly, never giving up, simply because he always had to try something, anything. There were three or four large empty phials on the floor. A swig used to knock her out in minutes if not sooner. One had to wonder how Ionas managed to drink them all before blacking out… </p><p>“I’ll bring someone from the Temple and tell them you’re here,” Ouhri said. He looked sick in the face. Aoife wanted to go with him, but couldn’t bring herself to take a single step, to manage a single movement. She passed her eyes over the pages again and again, struggling to read more than a line, failing. “Give me to the Mountain,” and “never stopped loving her,” and “tell my children I’m sorry,” and </p><p>
  <em> The raging sea is cruel and dark, and all his friends are dead. </em>
</p><p>Her teeth hurt because she’d clenched them so hard. </p><p>Florion resorted to chest compressions, in between blowing air into Ionas’ mouth while pinching his nostrils. He needed to stop, they both needed to stop. </p><p>This man wanted to die, and he made sure to die, and the note was supposed to be read by someone who would take this act in stride, not her. Why couldn’t they stop. </p><p>Just then the bells started ringing. The clock showed quarter past two. They weren’t ringing out the time, or to call people to the service, and they went on and did not stop. </p><p>Aoife found herself crying. Her tears were dripping down onto the pages, and she threw the latter down on the table, and then angrily stuffed them back into the envelope. The most horrible, <em>selfish</em> thing was that she knew she wasn’t crying for Drifeo or Ionas, or for their broken hearts, or lost lives. She was crying out of an all-encompassing realization that if anything were ever to happen to Florion, she’d want to die with him. She truly did not want to live without him. Perhaps that’s what he meant when he said he’d never leave her. </p><p>Aoife turned around and looked at him. Defeated, standing on one knee, with head hung low, he was silently crying too. And this was what made her budge. Perhaps the only thing that was capable of it at the moment. They embraced next to the unmoving body and cried for a while, and then remained like this for a while longer, until the tears dried out and there was movement and noises outside, coming in through the open windows. </p><p>There were people, and there were stretchers, and there were voices, and someone told them they’re expected at the Temple, to meet with the new High Priestess, because the old one just died (“Thank the gods, she’s suffered enough!”), and they assumed Ouhri was still there, so they got up, kissed briefly, and went. </p><p>There was something else worrying her, something small but sharp and bothersome like a prick of a needle. It’s gotten lost amidst everything else but she managed to fish it out halfway to the Temple. </p><p>Ionas’s wife. </p><p>Florion once mentioned that according to hearsay they’ve had eight to ten children together, but no one Florion talked to knew her name. Ionas himself did not call her by name. He said how he oh-so-honourably decided to stick by her and how he remained “loyal to her until her passing”, but what the hell does loyalty even matter in this situation?! </p><p>She used to be a lady-in-waiting. An object to him initially, to get rich and famous, to be used by him to climb the ranks of the court. He got her pregnant and left on an expedition. And then another one. And another. He cheated on her without a second thought although he must have known he'd come back home eventually, Coris had probably assured him! He then plugged her out of her life and took her across the ocean. Maybe she had friends, too. Maybe she missed her parents, who knows. Maybe she loved someone else, not him. Or maybe she loved him so much that… </p><p>Aoife grinded her teeth. </p><p>What if she was a traditional woman until the end, taught to always do as her husband commanded? And then did, and kept on popping out babies for him, all the while not knowing or, even worse, knowing for sure that he <em> never stopped loving </em>another woman. And then she died. Great! </p><p>Aoife shook her head wildly. <em> Why does this bother me so much. </em>She could not claim to know the whole situation. It was none of her business, anyway. </p><p>But her own definitions of everything, absolutely everything, suddenly seemed so blurred, and her mind, her morals, her own decisions and actions felt like a smeared canvas for a moment.  </p><p>She had no right to judge. But she yearned to judge: brutally, harshly, cruelly. Human men. Needed. To be. Judged. Convicted. Taught lessons. </p><p>Paradoxically, this feeling overshadowed everything else for a few seconds. </p><p>She felt so cruel. She was never cruel. Now, even less so. But she felt so cruel!</p><p>And then Florion squeezed her fingers and it was gone. </p><p>Right after it felt like it had not even belonged to her. </p><p>They entered the Temple grounds. </p><p>“Look, he’s talking to Mahri. Should we save him or her first?” he said in a weak yet still very florionesque attempt at a joking distraction. </p><p>“Her, definitely her,” Aoife replied. “He’s our responsibility now.” </p><p>They came closer. </p><p>“...so he now wants me to meet her properly, dinner together and all, and she intimidates me, her tether’s like a booming drum,” Mahri was saying.</p><p>“This all reminds me of my own mother so much,” Ouhri replied. “You need to power through it, no other choice. You can’t keep on avoiding a woman like this forever.”</p><p>Mahri sighed. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have t—” She noticed Aoife, beamed and darted to hug her. Mahri didn’t look distressed or overly tired. Her apron had soil stains on it. Aoife was one giant stain at the moment.  </p><p>“I’ve missed you,” Aoife told her. “Sorry this happened. Are you well?”</p><p>“What are you sorry for? Hi, Arseface,” she amiably said to Florion over her head. </p><p>“Hi, Mahri.”</p><p><em> What-are-you-sorry-for, </em>Aoife repeated in her head. What, indeed. </p><p>This was the first time in two years someone she knew here died. Before this, she’d only been a distant observer, overhearing things, drawing conclusions. Now she was to be a participant. And from Mahri’s point of view nothing terrible has happened. An old woman passed on to the next world, to allegedly spend some time there and then come back and be young again? </p><p>One of the nurses that’d come to the house to pick Ionas’s body rushed past them towards the buildings, a stack of letters in his hand. Aoife turned away. </p><p>“Nothing… Nevermind…”</p><p>“Maeve wants to talk to you one on one. I don’t know what about. Oh, and the funeral starts in about half an hour.”</p><p>“What?” Aoife asked dully. “So soon? Wouldn’t people want to say goodbye?”</p><p>Mahri shrugged, looking a bit confused. “They already did. Wrote all the messages that fit, too. So the sooner we get her there, the better.” Whatever this all meant… “Anyway, we’ll meet you at the dormitories. I’ll get you a change of clothes. And maybe you as well,” she said to Florion. Right. They were both covered in coal dust head to toe. Ouhri was already relatively clean and wearing fresh clothes, something out of a Temple nurse’s uniform instead of his own shirt, yet she hadn’t noticed it initially. </p><p>“Do I absolutely have to go alone?”</p><p>“Well she asked to talk one on one, so...”</p><p>But the men still walked her to the door of the study. It was no longer ajar. </p><p>Aoife had no idea if there was some kind of special protocol involved. She should have asked Mahri. </p><p>“Do I call her “my lady” now, too?” </p><p>They’ve gotten drunk together on more than one occasion. Maeve taught her dirty words. Maeve slathered her in yogurt when she was sunburnt. Maeve had explained to her how to scrape off bodily hair and how to insert tampons. They’ve spent countless evenings at the bathhouse, scrubbing each other diligently. Maeve was one of the three people, the others being Florion and Mahri, whom Aoife played and sang a song for while completely naked. <em> My lady </em>did not feel right. </p><p>“Call her whatever you wish,” Florion offered. </p><p>Ouhri ruffled her hair, sending black particles flying everywhere. “Well I didn’t,” he added. </p><p>“What did you call her?”</p><p>“‘Hey, gorgeous’.”</p><p>He was probably joking. But it made her chuckle nonetheless. Aoife opened the door and stepped in. </p><p>Everything in the study remained the same except for the person behind the desk. She did not have to look for words to say, or fumble for appropriate protocol, because Maeve jumped up and ran to her, nearly sweeping her off her feet in a hug. Except, it ended as abruptly as it began, with Maeve suddenly stepping away. It must have been the dirt. </p><p>“Sorry. For me being like this.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Maeve said. She was wearing her usual Temple sister uniform still. “I really want to hug you, may I hug you?”</p><p>This was weird. </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>She did, immediately. </p><p>“Are you,” Aoife probed as they embraced, “not supposed to do this now, or are you not allowed...”</p><p>“No, I suppose I am.”</p><p>Huh. </p><p>“What should I call you?”</p><p>Maeve shrugged. “In private, whatever you’d like.”</p><p>Aoife stepped away. “What about in public?”</p><p>There was a pause. “Also whatever you’d like.”</p><p>They pulled away from each other. Aoife did not want to sully the impeccable furniture, so she shook her head in response to the invitation to sit. </p><p>“So did you want to talk to me about the test or...”</p><p>For some reason Maeve was looking at her very intently, like she was seeing her face for the first time. She jumped up a little at the question, as if awakening from a daze. “Test, sure. Right after the funeral, if you don’t mind. I assume you already know what’s involved.”</p><p>Aoife did. She then blurted out, unexpectedly, “Do I absolutely have to?”</p><p>Maeve pursed her lips. “Uhm. Yes, I think… You… Do you not want to?”</p><p>Aoife was no longer certain what she wanted. She was in a kind of a daze herself. “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. Probably won’t be chosen either way,” she added. “So just for protocol.”</p><p>“For protocol,” Maeve echoed, expressionless. </p><p>“Humans,” Aoife said. It’s not like she was eager to learn about them, but she had to learn it. “In your letter you were very vague. What happened?”</p><p>Maeve shrugged.</p><p>“Nothing much. Three men came here on a guided tour, in the morning when everyone was working and everything was calm, they got their explanation, Mahri pretended to be a convert...”</p><p>“Mahri? I thought it’d be you.”</p><p>“No, she actually did a brilliant job. You wouldn’t believe how convincing she was. She quoted from that scripture, and everything.”</p><p>Huh. “I didn’t know that...”</p><p>“She cares for you a lot,” Maeve interrupted. “That’s all there is to it… Then they left.”</p><p>Aoife felt like collecting all the candied ginger in the world and giving it to Mahri. </p><p>“So why did you want us to go back to the Valley?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you want to go back?”</p><p>Sure, she would. She’d love to stay for months and months. Aoife was even looking forward to the harvest now. </p><p>She shrugged and didn’t inquire about the matter any more. </p><p>“Actually now that you’re here.” Maeve gestured to the pile of letters on her table. The pages that were stained with Aoife’s tears lay on top. “I would ask you something.”</p><p>“Anything.”</p><p>“Do you think we should do it? Do you think we should let him?”</p><p>Confused, Aoife shook her head slightly. </p><p>“Let… what… who? Ionas?”</p><p>“Yes, do you think we should allow him to be carried into the Mountain?” </p><p>Still having no idea what that entailed, Aoife shrugged and said, “Why wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“Because he’d be entering our afterlife. He might return as one of us.”</p><p>To Aoife this was all drivel for the most part. Maybe angels existed, but humans just died. Ionas was dying, or already dead, and that was all there was to it. It didn’t really matter where his body was to be laid to rest. So he’d occupy a bunch of space in some crypt down there, big deal. He wasn’t that large. </p><p>“Why are you asking me?” Aoife muttered helplessly. Because she was a human like Ionas? But that still did not give her the right to decide for them. </p><p>“Now that you’re back,” Maeve said, “I would rather learn your opinion.”</p><p>Aoife threw up her hands. “Alright, I guess, sure, why not.”</p><p>“Very well. Thank you. Oh, there’s something else.” Maeve stood up, walked over to one of the glass cabinets and produced a long paper box. “Drifeo wanted you to have this.”</p><p>It was that flute Drifeo allegedly loved so much. </p><p>After closing the door behind herself Aoife took it out of the case. The instrument looked very old. She distractedly blew into the embouchure hole without covering any of the others, and thought the instrument made almost the exact same sound her confused mind was repeatedly making at the moment. </p><p>This interaction felt so odd. Yes, they were still friends, yes, Maeve now was the highest of the clergy, with a mountain of new responsibilities, but there was something else in there, some additional indecipherable layer between them. As if Maeve expected her to know more than Aoife actually did. Or as if Maeve knew more than she actually let on. Or both. It was maddening. And it was no more than a hunch. </p><p>Well at least she did say she’d still be eating and going to the bathhouse with everyone else. Aoife snuck into the dormitories, into the room Mahri and Shyle shared, and stopped in the doorway, hearing Ouhri’s voice. </p><p>“No, not like this,” he was saying. “You have to be firm. You have to stand your ground. “I am a grown man, <em> mother!</em>” Like this.”</p><p>Smiling unwittingly, she peeked in. Lensi the Frog was sitting on Mahri’s bed, with Mahri cross-legged behind him, nodding along firmly to Ouhri’s exhortations. </p><p>“I‘m a grown man, mum!” Lensi yelped. </p><p>“No, not <em> mum!</em>” Ouhri said, getting exasperated. </p><p>Aoife felt like crying and laughing at the same time. </p><p>“Our responsibility,” Florion whispered from behind her, chuckling lightly. Snuck up to her again. She turned. She desperately wanted to hug him, but he was clean now and… He pulled her into an embrace. </p><p>“I love you,” he said. “So very much.”</p><p>“I love you. Want to see the bathroom where I was sobbing for you the day after you woke up?”</p><p>“Yes. I’ll punch this bathroom.”</p><p>He helped her change, and wash her face, and clean her hair. </p><p>They both drank some water to replenish the tears shed. Then they found Ouhri again and joined the procession streaming out of the Temple grounds. Aoife glimpsed Drifeo’s body being carried out on a simple stretcher, wrapped in what looked like bed linens. </p><p>People were accumulating on the streets. Neither of them looked particularly mournful. Some of them touched the body, some threw handfuls of flower petals atop the stretcher. Aoife noticed the little girl that gave her a seashell on Boaldaen, and waved at her. She reluctantly waved back at her and Florion, and then immediately hid behind some woman who stood right next to Zakiyah. </p><p>The latter pretended to ignore them, nose jolting upward.</p><p>Aoife vaguely wondered once again why Zakiyah was the way she was. Did something happen to her, did humans hurt her or someone she knew? She seemed to be in her early fifties or so. Must have travelled… But Florion did say once that no, nothing happened, she was just like this for some reason. Aoife thought about this paradox without any bitterness, detached. And then thought of it no longer. </p><p>Oddly enough, instead of the procession getting larger, it was slowly dissipating. Some people seemingly noticed their friends in the crowd, joined them. Some just stopped walking and stood aside. So in the end, when they reached the middle of the Road of Steps, there were no more than two dozen attendants left. Aoife turned to make sure. She could see the second stretcher now, being carried by two people at the tail end of the procession. Must have been Ionas. Did he already die? His face was uncovered. This felt so wrong… There were flower petals covering his body, too, but they were falling off as the stretcher shook, angled at the stairs.  </p><p>Aoife sped up a little to catch up with a familiar figure. “Shyle, did he die? The Traveler? Do you know?”</p><p>“I think he’s still breathing,” Shyle said matter-of-factly. </p><p>“What?! But…”</p><p>“Better this way if you ask me. No risk of parts not getting there.”</p><p>“Huh?!”</p><p>She felt a hand over hers and was pulled back by intertwining fingers. Her own fingers shook. </p><p>“Florion, are they… They’re going to bury him alive.”</p><p>“Not bury. Not exactly,” he said. “They’re going to give them both to Kenn.”</p><p>This ever present tyrant again? What was he going to do to them, eat them or something?! Or just, give in a figurative sense, like “give me to the Mountain”? And it’s not like it was a living sacrifice, so… Hold on, wasn’t it?! </p><p>“I know you said he isn’t going to wake up, and I know that’s what he wanted but… It still doesn’t feel right.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Florion muttered. “It doesn’t.”</p><p>Ouhri heard their conversation. He looked a little pale. </p><p>“Are you sure you want to,” he said after a while, muffled, and nodded at the cavern ahead, “see them off till the end.”</p><p>“Yes,” Aoife replied.  </p><p>“Yes,” Florion echoed. “Maybe you should wait outside if...”</p><p>“No, I’m going too then,” Ouhri interrupted.</p><p>A familiar guardswoman stood near the entrance, giving each and every attendant something from a burlap sack. When it was her turn, Aoife got hers too, and realised it was a small crusty bag, the fireproof one usually reserved for keeping and carrying flamestones. No one was talking anymore, and the silence was only interrupted by footsteps once she entered the cavern, so she asked no more questions. Aoife did not know what to do with the bag, and just stuffed it into her pocket. </p><p>Expecting to see an infinitely long corridor with countless openings on each side, because this is what crypts probably would have looked like, she, instead, discovered that this corridor was very short, forking. Everyone turned left, so she followed. They all entered a spacious cavern lit by a multitude of oil lamps. It was stuffy in there, naturally, and it got even stuffier when everyone crowded around the center, which was… a stone bath? Aoife came closer.   </p><p>It did remind her of a stone bath, except it was much larger, nearly as large as the children’s pool at the dreamer house, and empty, dry and hollow, no more than two feet in depth, and the bottom was smooth and covered in what appeared to be black dots? No, she decided, holes. Tiny holes. </p><p>Both bodies were then slowly lowered into it, and the transporters stepped away. Were they now to leave? But no one seemed to be moving. In fact, it appeared to be only the beginning. People were talking in hushed whispers, stared at the bodies, as if expecting… something. </p><p>“Never been to this part,” Florion whispered from her left.</p><p>Ouhri sighed heavily from his other side. “I have, and I don't much care for it.”</p><p>“Why, what’s going to happen?”</p><p>She half-expected him to reply with a “you’ll see!” but instead he gulped loudly and told her, “They’re going to be disintegrated. It’s not a pleasant sight.”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>The stone bath started to rapidly fill with a liquid. It was transparent but appeared to be thicker than water, or was this the meager light at fault here? </p><p>Ouhri turned away, wincing and shaking his head slightly. He clearly did not want to watch. Florion hugged him around the neck and pressed Ouhri’s face to his shoulder. </p><p>But she did want to see, out of sudden grim curiosity. </p><p>And it was every bit as morbid as the word “disintegrated” suggested. Once the bodies were entirely submerged, she thought she saw movement on them. In a few seconds the linens were gone. They simply disappeared. Then the symbols on Drifeo’s skin dissipated, then the skin itself started to get blotchy and purple, then all the hair was just… not there anymore. The same thing was happening to Ionas. They laid there, side by side, with their skin peeling off, until one could see veins, muscles, bared teeth, bubbles accumulating in their eye sockets… Yes, they were very much <em> being eaten</em>. Aoife felt sick to her stomach. She turned away and poked her face into Florion’s chest too, and he pressed her close with his free arm. She noticed that he alone, out of all three of them, was still watching. Unblinking. </p><p>The surface was bubbling audibly. Aoife was entirely sure that no, it was not water. She closed her eyes and fumbled for Ouhri’s hand. “Why,” she croaked. Ouhri muttered something unintelligible in response. They connected their fingers on Florion’s chest. </p><p>This funeral, burial, sacrifice, meal, whatever it was. It felt bizarre, it felt horrifying, it even felt a bit disrespectful, and if she had to choose a single word, she’d choose the latter. If they did believe in the afterlife, wouldn’t they want to set up some elaborate rituals, treat the body with reverence? And why did Kenn eat dead bodies, anyway?</p><p>“It’s over,” Florion said after a while. “You can look now.”</p><p>She turned, expecting to see something remaining. Bared skeletons, maybe. Bone dust. Or nothing at all. </p><p>Instead the bottom of the bath was full of... </p><p>“Oh sweet mother of mercy, why,” Aoife whimpered. </p><p>...flamestones. </p><p>People were taking turns to approach the bath, reach down and put some into the bags they were given before entering the cavern. </p><p>“Do you want to—” Ouhri started, shaking his own empty bag, and didn’t finish. Florion said nothing and did not move. </p><p>Shyle approached and offered her some sort of a crooked scoop. Aoife turned it down.</p><p>“Did… Did their bodies just turn into fuel?”</p><p>“What? No,” Shyle answered, furrowing her brow. “It’s just a gift in return!”</p><p>
  <em> You’d have to put. A gift. Into the bath. And those holes. Are too tiny.  </em>
</p><p>“But… But… Why would… Why would you do this to their bodies?!”</p><p>“Why are you worried about their bodies so much anyway? They don’t matter, they’re used up. It’s their minds that matter, and those are safe!”</p><p>Aoife opened her mouth and closed it. And opened and closed again. <em> How did she… how did they not… Why?!  </em></p><p>Shyle looked at her, confused, and walked away to scoop some of the flamestones for herself. </p><p>“Let’s get out of here,” Florion said. He threw his own bag on the floor, and they followed his example, although Ouhri seemed reluctant for a moment. </p><p>Aoife wanted nothing more than to run out, outside, to breathe in some fresh air, and maybe scream as well. Wrong, wrong, wrong, this felt so wrong. Was she burning dead bodies all this time? Was she heating up her bathwater with them all this time, was her food cooked with them, was Ouhri’s ship running on dead bodies?! </p><p>No, no, surely not. <em> It can’t be. </em>But what else? What else could have happened here? </p><p>In a few moments Aoife was hyperventilating. </p><p>She reflexively slapped away the hand that was reaching for her and ran out of the cavern, panting, then doubled over in the corridor, trying not to retch. </p><p>
  <em> Every single bathhouse, every single hearth, every single fishing vessel, every single…  </em>
</p><p>“Aoife.” Florion put his hands on her shoulders and turned her firmly to face him. </p><p>Her gaze was wandering, and she was shaking, and the dark walls of the corridor were smeared. </p><p>“Florion, they… You… He… He turns dead bodies into… Into...” She wheezed. </p><p>“Look at me, Aoife. Look at me. Straight up. Good girl. No, keep looking. Breathe.”</p><p>But flamestones were always so abundant. And people did not die in Rheske often, the town wasn’t this large. It couldn’t have been true… She listened for his voice and breathed in what little air she could get.  </p><p>“That’s it, that’s a good girl.”</p><p>Yet Kenn ate them. He ate them. Somehow. He ate them and digested them and he exuded back flamestone. </p><p>“Florion, are all... Are all flamestones actually people?!”</p><p>Was Kenn able to eat Florion when the latter was dreaming? Would Kenn be able to eat her if she’s chosen? She did not want to be chosen. She did not want to be tested! She did not want anything to do with this… this… <em> Monster</em>. </p><p>“No they are not, Aoife. Correlation does not imply causation. Come on, let’s get you outside, you need some—”</p><p>“Aoife...” Maeve was standing right behind her, accompanied by two caretakers. “It’s time. It won’t take long.”</p><p>Aoife felt like screaming. Breaking down in sobs. Running away. After what she just witnessed, not even five minutes of reprieve. </p><p>“For protocol,” Maeve added and smiled. This did not help in the slightest. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting Kenn for any reason at all. </p><p>But what was she supposed to do? Tell them no, run and hide? After everything they’ve done for her, after everything they went through to keep her safe, after all their help, and support, and patronage? </p><p>She turned around. Florion was staring at her intently. He looked just about ready to fight for their way out of here if need be. Just in case he really was, and she wasn’t imagining things, Aoife shook her head faintly, then addressed Ouhri. </p><p>“You’re really here this time, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “I am. Promise.”  </p><p>To emphasize, he touched the tip of her nose with his finger. Just like she did his this morning. This morning… It seemed so far removed. Seemed like an eternity behind. </p><p>It was unfair how every time he came to Rheske, especially these last three months, something monumentally <em> shitty </em>happened. To him, to her, to all three of them. Maybe he was actually right when he joked about flying lizards. Was it coincidence or was it a curse? Did correlation truly not imply causation? </p><p>Taking a deep breath, she followed Maeve and the caretakers, clinging to Florion’s hand. Ouhri followed right after. This time they turned right, at the fork. </p><p>The room was the same, a mirror reflection of that other one. The stone bath wasn’t. It stood as low as the fountain bowl on the Main square, and it was filled with liquid and, just like the one Florion slept in, seemed to have no bottom. </p><p>There were people in there, too. Other caretakers. And she recognized Helionas. There was a woman with him, one Aoife thought she’d dreamt in a fever dream. He approached and introduced her as his twin Alexandrio. They did not have flamestone bags with them. They must have been here all this time, waiting, disregarding the “funeral”. <em> Devourment.  </em> </p><p>Aoife felt numb. </p><p>“We’ve been talking it over,” he was saying, “and decided to finally try, you know. They said we both fit, so I guess now...”</p><p><em> Finally try</em>. So then they had a choice? Did they offer their candidacies willingly? </p><p>She felt numb, and she was nodding, and barely listening, and… <em> For protocol, just for protocol. I wish I could kill a god… I wish I was able to wriggle out of his grasp, and to save Florion from him, and… everyone, every single one of them, how come they do not see he is a tyrant. </em> </p><p>“Alexandrio,” someone called. Helionas stopped talking and squeezed his sister’s hand. She clapped hers thrice, excitedly and sharply, as if beating out a short drum rhythm. She seemed unafraid. They were both unafraid, pleasantly agitated, happy even. </p><p>Everything just as Florion’d described it. Except instead of a caretaker it was Maeve standing by the pool. Alexandrio was invited to kneel next to it and to plunge her arm into the water. Aoife’s heart was pounding. She fumbled for support, found it, exhaled. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. </p><p>“Thank you, you may go and join the party if you wish.”</p><p>Right. Party. Instead of a wake. </p><p>“I’d rather stay here for now,” Alexandrio said. She looked disappointed but not overly so, and nodded encouragingly to her brother. </p><p>
  <em> Please call me next, I want to be done with this, it feels like waiting for a whipping.  </em>
</p><p>“Helionas,” Maeve called. Aoife whimpered.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Florion said. “You’re alright. Just a bit more.”</p><p>Helionas knelt, and he rolled his sleeve, and he lowered his arm into the liquid. </p><p>“He’s here,” Florion growled. There were ripples on the surface of the water, and Helionas watched them intently, his smile somewhat dissipating when the first stalk rose and circled his wrist, then another, attaching itself like a lamprey. </p><p>Instead of hiding behind Florion, she instinctively stepped in front of him. </p><p>Then Helionas’ face became blank, flat, expressionless. In another second or two the stalks withdrew. Helionas winced, swayed, Maeve squeezed his shoulder to support him. </p><p>“Chosen,” she declared. “I congratulate you, my friend.”</p><p>As he rose and turned his wrist to show them, beaming, Aoife clearly saw an outline of a treble clef. </p><p>She exhaled, tension receding from her like a wave. Ouhri pressed his hand to his forehead, breathing heavily, in obvious relief, then he reached to hug her, then Florion did, too... </p><p>“Aoife,” Maeve’s voice called. “Please.” She jerked up and turned. Maeve was pointing to the water. </p><p>But they only needed one this time, and they already had their musician, what else did they want from her?!</p><p>“Please,” Maeve repeated. </p><p><em> I have to do this</em>, Aoife thought. <em> I have to face him. I have to accuse him, judge him, confront him. He stole from my beloved. Mutilated his mind. He wants to steal from me. The only true thief around these parts.  </em></p><p>
  <em> I will not be afraid. I will not make a sound.  </em>
</p><p>She disentangled herself from the embrace and took an <b>angry</b> and <b>determined</b> step forward, and then another, and another, and knelt not in supplication but in defiance. </p><p>
  <em> Here is my fist. Choke on it, Monster.  </em>
</p><p>The stalks never left. They were hovering just below the surface, and they darted for her, and they pulled her in. </p><p>~*~</p><p>It is a boundless world, but it is also chaotic without her. She feels she can shape it a little. Bring order to it. It’s like a room in desperate need of a cleaning. Forms, images, thoughts, objects float in this void seemingly without meaning or purpose. She feels a giant presence all around, and it’s hungry, and greedy, and all-encompassing. And it wants her. </p><p>All it wants is her. </p><p>“Hands off, filth.”</p><p>And it withdraws. Aoife thinks she can hear it whimpering. It’s such a mournful sound that for a fraction of a moment she feels sorry for whoever made it.  </p><p>She keeps that giant presence at bay and looks for smaller ones. Familiar ones. Drifeo is here. Ionas is here. Somewhere. They truly are here, and they are… untroubled? </p><p>It cannot be. </p><p>But they are all here. They are not tortured, not in service of some monster, they are free. They are… living. It is, indeed, only their minds that matter, then?</p><p>She finds other little things, little revelations, and keeps them safe for later. </p><p>She looks for her mother too, on instinct. Yet every place Aoife probes is hollow. Her mother is nowhere to be found.  </p><p>But someone else is nearby, sensing her call and answering it in her mother’s stead. </p><p>Someone very much like Lily. </p><p>It’s a man, and his face is wide and friendly, and completely unfamiliar, and his hands are strong, and muscled, and scarred. </p><p>“I know you!” Aoife says. “You’re… You’re Darius.”</p><p>He nods. </p><p>“I’m Aoife. I know your son! He and I, we’re… I love him so much. I really, really love your son!” she blurts out. </p><p>He smiles and reaches to take her palm, and opens his mouth to say something but... </p><p>It does not feel like an attack. It feels like a thousand hands trying to embrace her all at once. Clingy, insistent, desperate, pulling, out and away. </p><p>
  <em> Please, please, please. So long, it’s been so long.  </em>
</p><p>“Hands off, filth.” </p><p>It wails as she pushes it away again. </p><p>
  <em> You fucked up, Maria. You fucked up.  </em>
</p><p>She follows the familiar voice. And for the first time she can clearly see the embroidery, all of it. The white cat, the rainbow, the beams of light shooting out of the cat’s eyes and open mouth. And the inscription below it all, and it says, <b>“Where Is Your God Now?” </b></p><p>Mihkel is smiling at her, unmoving, and his smile is fake. So much pain behind it. </p><p>
  <em> Tere päevast, härra Rheske.  </em>
</p><p>This image is a fake. <em> This Mihkel </em> is a fake. There’s one behind him. The real one. On the ground, in chains, naked, unconscious. She needs to get to him, she needs to help him. She needs to set him free. So he can make things right. </p><p>Aoife cannot reach him. </p><p>She has to be asleep, she has to be in a stone bath to truly help, to truly connect, to take control, to shake off these yearning hands that cling to her, claw at her, wish to penetrate her. </p><p>“I shall be back, Monster. I will chew you up and spit you out.”</p><p>Aoife opens her eyes. There is something on her wrist now, too. </p><p>It’s not a drawing, not an image of an object, but a number, and the number is <b>20</b>.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tags/tw: Threesome — F/M/M, Hand Job, Deepthroating, Oral Sex, Angst, Death of Minor Characters, Suicide, Unsuccessful CPR, Mommy Issues, Funeral, Corpse Decomposition in Fast Forward, Plot Twists (here to stay and multiply till the end now)</p><p>I apologize for the sex scene being somewhat comical… Felt like adding something light, cheerful and heartwarming to counteract at least some of the angsty stuff that follows.</p><p>p.s. you can always find and poke me on <a href="https://flowerandthesongstress.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. The Truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Previously on FatS:<br/>*Oh look, there IS a rollercoaster! And it’s shit!<br/>*Local funerals can go suck all the cocks in hell wtf is this, guys<br/>*Soylent Green is people? Maybe?<br/>*Also unclear if Immigrant girl is the chosen one or just an office administrator tbh</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Spiritual freedom, and the freedom of religion, and the freedom to believe whatever it is you want to believe, is a good and fair thing for as long as the entity you worship does not demand evil deeds from you. As long as said religion does not call for you to conquer, and kill, and rape, and maim, and to impose your god on others.” </em>
</p><p>“I need to go and pray,” Ouhrion said. “Right now.”</p><p>So far he’s been suspiciously silent throughout everything that followed right after she came to.</p><p>“Chosen,” Maeve said. She did not add ‘I congratulate you’, or anything of the sort. </p><p>Aoife stared at her with eyes wide and noticed something in Maeve’s that resembled humility. This was probably the look on Aoife’s face when she first encountered Coris, at least it felt like it. And it was weird. </p><p>“What does this mean?” Florion interjected.</p><p>“There’s twenty. The twentieth stood waiting for her, just for her.”</p><p>Tears were in Maeve’s eyes now. <em> She’s mistaken me for someone else, someone I’m not, </em> Aoife thought all of a sudden. </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Yet Ouhri remained silent and unmoving. </p><p>Then there were more meaningless and empty questions, Florion nearly yelling, “She knows all of this already!” and “Of course she’ll be there!” to someone. Then: her, repeating words reflexively, after a caretaker. Their sacred oath or whatever it was. It felt grand and empty. Songs performed during Worship day service felt more meaningful.  </p><p>Her mind instead was too busy cataloguing away what she just saw. Aoife wanted to remember. She wanted to retain everything: every single feature of the man she’d encountered, every single hunch and small revelation, every sensation and every nook and cranny that she had enough time to notice in that chaotic void. </p><p>Helionas said something, because he was still there and looking shocked but, she thought, not in a bad way. </p><p><em> Not like it matters. </em> </p><p>“Enough of this, we’re leaving,” Florion announced, shielding her from everyone but Ouhri.</p><p>The latter still remained silent.  </p><p>He said those words only when all three of them were outside. Aoife’s lungs felt famished. </p><p>They both looked at him. </p><p>“Please, I… I need to… Right now,” Ouhri repeated. </p><p>“The Harbor?” Florion offered. </p><p>Ouhri shook his head wildly, not looking at them. “There was a beach nearby. To the north.”</p><p>They both knew this beach quite well by now. </p><p>“Let’s go then.” Florion went ahead, paving the way for the two of them, shamelessly using his elbows. </p><p>Aoife followed, but not before speeding up and fumbling for Ouhri’s hand. His fingers were ice cold. His grip was weak. </p><p>And her legs did not obey her properly. She still felt conflicted. Angry and hopeful at the same time, and amazed at how these two sensations could be so closely intertwined.  </p><p>The town was steadily getting drunk. No other way of putting it. It was a lot like Boaldaen, except with no music, less kissing, more conversations, substantially more clothes, and with children around. Even clearer when they descended to the square level. </p><p>She felt the desperate need to speak, but the amount of people around, and of noise, stopped her. Aoife wished she also had someone to pray to. </p><p>Upon surmounting most obstacles and passing the majority of congregated crowds, they reached the Upper Boardwalk, and she couldn’t take it any longer. She tugged at Florion’s sleeve.</p><p>“I saw your father.” </p><p>She described the man as best she could. Noticeably bulky shoulders, dark scars, rectangular face, low forehead, hair combed back, a braid… Was this why Florion often wore his hair like this? Yes, he told her right away, exactly why. </p><p>Even his clothes, just in case, what little she managed to notice of them. </p><p>“It is him,” Florion said, perplexed. “Or someone very much like him.”</p><p>Ouhri still kept silent. His grip weakened even further. But she held even tighter.   </p><p>“It might have been a trick.”</p><p>“I’m almost certain it was.”</p><p>They’ve reached the beach and stopped. </p><p>“Let go,” Ouhri said all of a sudden, his tone flat and emotionless. She didn’t. She looked up at him. Aoife noticed how he didn’t yank his hand away. </p><p>“What if I don’t want to?”</p><p>“I said let go!” he repeated, louder, and clenched his teeth. </p><p>Instead she grasped his wrist with her free hand, too. “No.”</p><p>Not letting go felt important. More important, maybe, than anything that’s happened today. His lower lip was quivering. He wasn’t looking at her. But he wasn’t repeating the words either. </p><p>“I’m not an object, Aoife. I’m not a toy!” he whimpered, voice breaking. </p><p>Florion froze a few steps away from them. He wasn’t saying or doing anything, which was odd and unlike him in this situation. But she felt grateful for it, and apprehensive. He’s been through decades of this. It was her turn now. </p><p>
  <em> I was helped, now I can help.  </em>
</p><p>“No,” Aoife said. “You’re really not.”</p><p>She wondered which precise word burned like a brand in his head. Was it “worthless”, “nuisance” or some other one? Which other expressions was that little voice using to convince Ouhri that they didn't need him, didn't want him here? She tried to put herself in his shoes, to understand, and it was easy. Neither of them saw the whole picture, but it didn’t matter at the moment.</p><p>What Florion saw was this: his “prison warden” claiming her, as well, while showing her deceptive visions to trick her, to add insult to injury. What she saw was this: a disorderly chaos, confusing sensations, a few revelations that might have been disgusting lies, and a boundless entity that behaved like a clingy and whiny spurned lover for some reason. </p><p>What Ouhri saw was this: two people he was infatuated with, attached to as much as he was able to feel attached to anyone, the only two people in the world the repeated intimate contact with whom, according to him, did not make Ouhri feel as if his raw nerves were being strummed on like strings — staying together, being together, getting permission to remain together, always, everywhere, all of the time, three months instead of one, you are not being stupid.   </p><p>“Of course you’re not an object or a toy, you never were and you never will be. You are my friend,” Aoife said, and stood on her tiptoes to look into his eyes. “You are valued, and you are needed, and you are missed when you’re not around, and you are loved, and shall be, yes, even if you don’t ever tie another knot on me or stick your tongue inside me again, you still shall be.”</p><p>“Loved?” he croaked after a pause.</p><p>“Of course you are. I love you.” <em> Ten types of love, one word for it. </em>“And so does he.”</p><p>Ouhri did not reply, still busy studying the sand, but his tense shoulders finally dropped a little. He squeezed her fingers back a little, too, and Aoife knew it was safe to let go of his hand now. </p><p>Ouhri walked towards the shoreline, carelessly discarding his footwear on the sand, just before stepping into the tide. On and slowly on, until he was submerged down to his thighs. Ouhri then scooped up two handfuls of saltwater and put them to his cheeks, and drew shapes on them with his fingers, and closed his eyes. His lips were moving. </p><p>Florion pressed her close, humming, looking wistful. </p><p>“I think you should talk to him some more,” he finally said. </p><p>“And you?”</p><p>“In a bit.” Florion took her hand, and kissed it, and nodded towards the sea and Ouhri again. </p><p>Aoife took her shoes and trousers off and stepped into the tide, too. The water felt warm but refreshing. </p><p>He was no longer praying, simply standing there, letting the waves slowly sway his body there and back, over and over again, his eyes still shut. For one long second Aoife feared he might turn into seafoam and be carried away from them forever, never to return. </p><p>She reached for him. </p><p>“Moonlight...” This was a stupid fear. He’d always come back with the tide. Ouhri opened his eyes. “How do you keep your faith?”</p><p>He mused for a while before answering, barely loud enough to be heard over the waves. </p><p>“I suppose I… Just do.”</p><p>“Then do you really, truly believe in Him, in your god?”</p><p>“Yes. Why do you ask, Aoife?”</p><p>Because she’s been wondering a lot about it lately. How do people manage to keep their faith even if their god lets them down? That’s what she told him. </p><p>Except… This was the wrong thing to ask of Ouhri, she realised. His god has never, ever let him down.</p><p>“When I am in his domain, I feel my best self. He must be watching over me.”  </p><p>She was up to her waist in water, while he, only thigh deep. <em> But I’m not that small, </em>Aoife thought. Never was, never will be. </p><p>“I like your god then. He keeps you safe.”</p><p>She reached for him again and, this time, he took her hand willingly. </p><p>“He kept you safe, too. And now you’re here.”</p><p>This was a surprisingly heartfelt way of looking at things. And not entirely irrational. Did she not prefer, lately, to be grateful to the sea itself for bringing her here, rather than anything and anyone else? </p><p>“Huh. I guess you’re right. Would you… This thing you did with the water and your face… I’d like that, too. Would it be alright...”</p><p>“Yes,” Ouhri said. “Of course it would.” And moved closer to her, so she did not have to step deeper into water. Ouhri dipped his fingers into it, and slowly drew a shape on her forehead. </p><p>“A trident. His godly weapon, and a sign of protection on you. May he ever watch over you, Aoife, as he does over me.”</p><p>Then Ouhri placed unexpectedly soft and chaste kisses around it, and then on each of her cheeks and her lips, coating them in salt. </p><p>Unlike Florion, he was still very awkward with that whole bending down low and angling his mouth just right business. Aoife threw her head further back to help him, feeling endearment grip her heart. </p><p>They left the water, and Florion embraced them. </p><p>Ouhri was the one who seemed to not want to let go this time. He sighed. </p><p>“I have to go… Last month did not work either, so Hel is waiting for me. I promised.” That sounded almost pitiful. <em> Like waiting for a whipping.  </em></p><p>“You know you don’t have to if you don’t want to, right?” Florion said, pulling away a little. </p><p>“No, I will. I will. I just… I want to be like you. I want to start keeping my promises,” Ouhri muttered to him, looking down. After a moment, he added, “Although I don’t really know how I’ll be able to do the deed. Everything that’s happened today...”</p><p>“Think about us naked instead?” Aoife proposed, managing a smile. </p><p>Florion seemed to agree. “I know it’s been a long day but… This morning was still this morning.”</p><p>Ouhri finally looked at him, then at Aoife. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll try. Please wait for me before you… Before you make any decisions.”</p><p>Whatever that meant.   </p><p>“Of course we will,” Aoife assured him. For a moment, she wondered what that voice in his head sounded like now. Because it was obviously there again, raging. </p><p>“I think I’ve got something that might help you.” Florion scratched his temple, suddenly smiling with the corner of his mouth, and leaned in to whisper right into Ouhri’s ear, and the latter’s eyes went wide, and he looked at Aoife, and… Oh, the grin. </p><p>“Mmm, that… Certainly is… At the same time, really?!” he muttered, and Aoife realised this last one was addressed to her, and understood what had happened, and feigned indignation. </p><p>“Really. Don’t spring it up on me, though, I’d need lots of time to prepare. Also, are you shaming me? Because if you are, I will punch you!”</p><p>Ouhri even managed a little laugh. “Shaming you?! My lady, perish the thought, I am already salivating too much to even think of doing that. I am just confused as to how such a small person could hope to take so much cock.” He turned to Florion. “This will most certainly help.”</p><p>Instead of quipping further or arguing how she wasn’t that small, Aoife simply breathed an unexpected sigh of relief. It felt a little like… Like he was about to fall into a deep ravine and they just caught him at the very edge of a precipice, and pulled him away. It felt good, gratifying. It felt a relatively easy thing to do, too. </p><p>But she sensed that there’d be countless more times when it’d be anything but easy. </p><p>No matter. </p><p>Their love, and their responsibility now. </p><p> </p><p>Someone had come and emptied the cellar almost completely, no doubt to help get the town drunk. Florion told her that it didn’t matter, as it will get filled again come harvest season. They found a small bottle from the Valley, one of the very few that was left, and took it to the roof along with three glasses and some fresh water. </p><p>Then they stuck to their decision to wait for Ouhri before they would talk about important things, before Aoife would recount visions she’d seen in Kenn’s realm.</p><p>Ouhri had the right to know of it all, too. </p><p>For a while, they sat together, embracing, exchanging stories about Drifeo. Aoife recalled the way in which they’d met over two years ago, and many kindnesses, big and small, that came from Drifeo. </p><p>Florion, smiling a little, told a few stories, too, including how he was unable to keep his composure in Drifeo’s presence on several occasions, and yelled at the poor old Priestess, as if he was an angry teenager. </p><p>The noise below was not dying down. </p><p>Ouhri returned a while later, looking exhausted, with eyes sunken.</p><p>“I managed,” he said without a hint of humor. “Barely. I'm tapped out. So if you want to, then… Without me this time.”</p><p>They sat Ouhri between them to give him some assurances. </p><p>“It's fine,” Aoife said. “I don't want sex right now.” </p><p>After what she’d seen today, she wanted connections but they did not have to involve sex. </p><p>Florion agreed. “Me neither. Let's just go to sleep early. Or, at least after all this ruckus has faded somewhat.”</p><p>The noise was getting on his nerves, he said. Florion seemed to be way too used to the earplugs already. He reluctantly confessed to loving the countryside now more than any town.  </p><p>They drank a toast of watered wine to Drifeo, to the poor Traveler, and to each other. </p><p>Then Aoife told them. Everything, everything and anything that she could recall. Including one thing that seemed, for some reason, more important than the boundless afterlife she felt is there, or how the realm she saw reminded her of an underside of an item of clothing, not the front side, more important than meeting Darius, more important than not finding her mother. More important, even, than the undeniable fact that she held some kind of power over Kenn, and could command him. </p><p>“This man that’s been frequenting our dreams. His full name is Mihkel Rheske. I don’t know whether he adopted this last name because of the town, or if it’s the other way around. He seemed… old. And he died very long ago. Very, very long ago. Somewhere very far away. And that’s not all. I think he’s sort of like… Kenn’s father. A father to a god.”</p><p>“Gods have fathers?” Ouhri exclaimed. Florion remained mostly silent throughout, and his expression was rigid but, from time to time, he would reach to touch one of them. To ground them.  </p><p>“I’m not sure… I keep saying “sweet mother of mercy”, that’s because some humans believed that their god had a mother, and she wasn’t as nasty as the human god himself. I think the same thing applies to Mihkel. He is not evil. He’s not even that irritating, because the face we were shown… It’s not really him. Just a part of him. A tiny part, from when he was little. I think Kenn has him chained somehow, keeping his other parts from speaking out or doing anything. I think Kenn is scared of his intellect. Or… of a scolding. Like many boys are from their fathers.” </p><p>“A human father to our guardian… But after what I’ve learned about him… I can’t say I am surprised.” </p><p>She would not dare to guess then, what Kenn truly had to be if even monstrous humans called him a Monster. </p><p>“I also think that Kenn actually had two fathers in the beginning. Like Coris had two mothers. But the other one died before Mihkel did, and he wasn’t there. He wasn’t… inside. Like my mother. Although I saw his presence all over Mihkel, so to speak. Or, sensed it. I think I saw his portrait once, in a dream, but I do not know his name. And Mihkel kept on calling me Maria. Maria… That’s not my name. He seems to be confusing me with someone.”</p><p>Confusing her with someone. Just like… Just like Maeve did. </p><p>“That’s a strange name, Maria. Almost like Mahri, but not quite. What does the name Ouhrion mean?”</p><p>“Loyal,” he answered immediately and smirked. Selling himself short again. In truth, he was just that, Aoife thought. </p><p>“Do you know what the name Mahri means?”</p><p>“Well that’s easy, means ‘mother’,” Ouhri replied and rolled his eyes a little bit. </p><p>It felt like the dots were all there, but she had so much trouble connecting them, no matter how much she tried. Well, she was, most certainly, no one’s mother right now. The Monster made sure of that. </p><p>“We will sort it out, Ouhri. We will. But until then...”</p><p>“One day at a time,” Florion said suddenly, breaking his long silence, and smiled. </p><p>They stayed to talk for longer. They talked of their plans and how they would meet Ouhri each month to be with him. Until the plunge. Until she would, undoubtedly, take on Kenn, and rein him in like a lyssej. Aoife hoped that some of her determination made both men feel better. Ouhri certainly did not look as meek as he did before. </p><p>“I know you’re very strong, Aoife. Perhaps the strongest person I have ever met.”</p><p>They told him about the Traveler and recounted, in great detail, of his life and of those notes that weren’t his. It was a fascinating story, after all, and Ouhri enjoyed hearing it, and asked many questions, despite how tired he looked. </p><p>“I look forward to sleeping next to you tonight,” he said when the noise finally started to die out, and the wine was gone, and they joined hands. </p><p>~*~</p><p>They both fell asleep first, with Florion in the middle this time, and they were clinging to him, and he, to them, with as much love as he could hold on the tips of his fingers. Yet he was awake for some time after, thinking of only one thing, one phrase. Of how Aoife ‘absurdly’ felt that she was the master in his god’s realm, and not Kenn himself. Florion dozed off with this thought swirling in his head still. There was something about it… Something so familiar…  Even more familiar, more important than all of the other memories he’d lost...</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>...It’s a constant, unending struggle, year after year, winter after winter. Florion fights for his thoughts, his memories, his sense of self. In the rare moments when he’s left completely alone, when he is just himself, and nothing else, he visits other dreamers and watches them. Not a single one of them faces the same struggle, as far as he can tell. Not a single one is subject to Kenn clawing at them, trying to take over, trying to occupy what he claims is his rightful place. They are his guests, and they come and go on schedule, take his gifts and leave, minds unmarred, and yet he alone is tortured. </p><p>I am Florion, son of Darius. I am me, and only me, and I am in control. </p><p>Last year it was difficult. As if his cage was rattled twice as much. This year it’s a barely endurable stand-off, made so much harder by the constant scenarios Kenn gleefully shows him in response to his request. So much death. And this is something Kenn wants. He wants to see all those children dead. <em> You will take it and you will be happy about it.  </em></p><p>I am Florion, son of Darius. I am me, and only me, and I am in control. </p><p>
  <em> You are really, really not.  </em>
</p><p>His god withdraws completely when there are visitors, as if people sitting there, outside, in the waking world, could know, could witness. This year, Ouhri comes every month. Once, to speak of inconsequential things and to reminisce, in a cheerful, light tone. Once, to bring news from home and his route, and coastal towns he’d visited. And once... to sob by his side, bottle in hand. “You were supposed to wake up two days ago, why aren’t you waking, Flor.” </p><p>And Florion cries, too, and his tears are unseen, unheard and imaginary, just like the wind ruffling his non-existent leaves. </p><p>There’s caretakers poking and prodding at him. There’s a girl in Temple uniform who peeks under his loincloth, and pokes too, and squeezes, and makes a face, and says “eh”. </p><p>And then <em> she </em> comes. And Kenn, for the first time in the presence of a visitor, does not stop stirring, and does not want to withdraw. Florion pushes him out, forcefully. The girl is human, and Florion knows what humans are, and knows it very well, now better than ever. There’s also only one human in Rheske, so this must be her. Florion wishes he knew her name. His god does put a name to this form, but Florion doesn’t trust him. </p><p>Her gaze is timid, kind, and full of sadness. She sings for him, so beautifully, but her voice breaks a little. There’s tears of compassion in her eyes. She longs for him without knowing him, and he longs for her too, because her song matches what is in his heart, and because his loneliness is a real, physical thing now, encroaching, choking him, pushing him towards despair. It was so many years ago that Coris gave him a promise he now knows to be a lie. <em> Let me back in. Let all of me in, and it will go away.  </em></p><p>No. I am Florion, son of Darius. I am me, and only me, and I am in control. </p><p>"Stay with me. Please, stay with me, kind songstress." He reaches, reaches up high with his half-shattered mind, for the flowers she brought, and they bloom in the air around him, and on the ground, and inside him, as a reminder for when she’s gone. </p><p>Three petals. Up, skin. Now. Stay. A grim reminder, as well, of the three disastrous individuals who have started this horrible calamity centuries ago, in a different world, under a different sun. The truth about them needs to be uncovered… What?! </p><p>His god is restless, roaring, thrashing, and it’s getting harder to keep him at bay. This much Florion does know: he needs to be completely free of <em> His </em> influence to safely wake up, to be himself again. If he emerges now, he is not sure if there won’t be a part of him that isn’t really him. And those seeds… He doesn’t want to bring them along. But this would be unheard of, because no dreamer had ever returned without a gift. You cannot wake up until you take what’s offered.  </p><p>Florion waits for her arrival as the desert waits for rain. The eternities in between are insufferable. The battle continues, and rages, as Florion grapples with himself, with Kenn, with doubt and future and perspective. With dead children. </p><p>When she returns for the first time, she immediately gets spooked by something and runs away, and he <em> wails </em>down there, screaming for her, for someone, anyone.</p><p>But she returns once more, and then again, and again. And every time she does, the relief is immeasurable<em>.  </em></p><p>“Look at me now, talking to a stranger who can’t even hear me,” he says, knowing she would indeed not hear him. <em> Let me back in, and she will. </em> This is when he starts doubting, not sure, still, that this doubt is his own. This is when, unexpectedly, his god switches from raging to cajoling. <em> Let me help you.  </em></p><p>She talks to him, too, but very little, and very timidly. “They let me do the silk weave today,” she says with a shy smile. “I think it turned out alright.”</p><p>“I’m sure it did,” he replies to the void. “I’m sure I’d love a shirt made from that silk.” <em> You no longer have a body to put it on, let me help you. </em></p><p>There are other songs, too, and a lot of them (“I think I really like this one”, “This one, my mother taught me… She’s dead now.”). Some, he hums in between, but that first one, more often than others. He thinks he starts to understand what it is about. </p><p>Cajoling slowly turns into whining. <em> Please. Please let me talk to her. Please, I have waited for so long. Please go to her.  </em></p><p>“Look, Florion,” the girl says, and in response to his name from her lips he sends a hundred smiles and kisses up. “This is a book about carnivorous flowers. I bet you haven’t heard of those.”</p><p>He has. And this book is so ridiculously boring. But as she reads to him, he weeps, not knowing why, sap running down the trunk in lieu of tears.  </p><p>
  <em> Please.  </em>
</p><p>And whining and nagging turn into a diplomatic negotiation. <em> This will be your choice. You will be free to make it yourself. I will not follow. Take them. Take them and go. Take them and be with her. She wants you, go.  </em></p><p>“This is stupid. I feel stupid,” she whispers, stopping mid-phrase. </p><p>“Don’t be, please, don’t be, you’ve been the only respite for me. You are so kind and compassionate, and I would like to be your friend. I would like to be with you.”</p><p>
  <em> She cannot hear you.  </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t understand anything anymore. What is this girl to his god? A means to an end? He says she matters to him, but Florion once again doesn’t trust him. He can feel something else underneath. There’s want, and there’s lustful longing, and there is palpable <em> need </em> nearly boiling over. The problem is, it’s getting harder and harder to discern his own feelings from that of his god. He, too, has feelings for her. Whether they are borne of desperation and loneliness, or are genuine, he does not know. But he’d come to think of her as his friend. And, potentially, something more. Because yes, she wants him, he can see that, and he, to put it mildly, doesn’t mind. He would like to take her hand, to walk with her, to talk to her, to ask her questions. To lift her up and spin her, and hear her laugh. </p><p>And then she falls asleep by his side, and her hand is within reach. </p><p>“Stop, stop, stop, don’t!” Florion cries out, feeling his god crawl towards her with ravenous hunger. It’s too late. He has her, and pulls her in. “Leave her be! She doesn’t belong to you, she doesn’t belong here!” </p><p><em> But she does. Wouldn’t you like to know, why? </em>Everything snaps in a single moment. His cage falls apart and he, in his confusion, is seemingly claimed.  </p><p>His mind is in complete disarray. He no longer understands where he ends, and Kenn begins. It’s not as horrible as he thought it would be. The presence is even soothing somewhat, and he feels as if he’s grown a new limb in place of one he’d lost long ago. Or twenty limbs. <em> Do you not feel whole again? O how she loved this one fantasy.  </em></p><p>He sees what Kenn sees. And that is, a mysterious, piercingly bright glow where a person should be. Maybe his god truly isn’t one, because this, here, now, is the one he considers his goddess, his mother, his creator. But something is wrong. Although his own thoughts are fragmented now, he understands that something is horribly wrong. <em> Is this really her? Why did she come through this entrance when she was supposed to use that other one? This cannot be her. Why is she so horrible, so damaged, so tiny and scared. What is she? What are you? </em></p><p>
  <em> What are you, little creature?  </em>
</p><p>Florion struggles, mute and angry and stubborn, and screams silently, and rages, away, away with you, monster. He prevails. </p><p>I am Florion, son of Darius. I am me, and only me, and I am in control. And she is here for me, not you. She is my friend, and not your plaything. </p><p>“What is your name?”</p><p>It’s not “Maria”. Of course it’s not. Of course his god lied to him. </p><p>They call me… </p><p>Florion, I am Florion, son of Darius. I am me. </p><p>She asks about the flowers, and smiles, openly and widely for the first time, and he is undone. He yearns to be touched by her, so much that his physical form almost emerges, the way it does in the rare moments when he is only Florion, and nothing else.</p><p><b> <em>No.</em> </b> </p><p>He wants to thank her, he wants to tell her how grateful he is, and he wants to warn her, but he cannot. Kenn’s plan is clear now: to sneakily mess up his words ever so slightly, and steal some of them completely, and put others in his mouth, and to keep on tugging every single second, stirring his mind, confusing him, blinding him, mixing up his memories and urges. <em> What are you? </em></p><p>And it doesn’t stop. It will not stop. </p><p>“Aoife, Aoife, my dearest friend, don’t go. Kiss me again, touch me again. Grant me hope, for all I see is horrors. And I am so terrified that if I leave, he and the horrors will follow. He wants to spill human blood.” <em> Please don’t go.  </em></p><p>“He will not let me speak the truth. He will only allow me to say things that are safe. He will force me to lie to you and hide things from you, and his motivations will remain a mystery until they no longer are, until it’s too late and there is an ocean of blood.”  </p><p>His best friend comes again and doesn’t know he is crying, as Ouhri, without tears this time, tells him of how he met this red-haired girl who obviously has an obsessive crush on him, so maybe she will find out something the others don’t, because she’s human. “It’s not an obsessive crush, Ouhri. It’s <em> lonely</em>.”</p><p>Even his own desire, when she admits her feelings and gives herself to him, is twisted, perverted, mangled by his god. “<b>This isn’t real!”</b> he screams in vain to her and to himself. <b>“This isn’t me! Please, Aoife, please!”</b> </p><p>It’s all a sick game to Kenn. He keeps alluding to some mysterious fantasies belonging to a woman that doesn’t exist, and of ways of pleasing her, as if his very existence depended on it. </p><p>Yet Aoife is oblivious to all of this. She thinks it’s only him in there. She’s begging for him to wake up. She’s crying. Florion secretly weeps too, and he struggles, and does not stop struggling. </p><p>Desperate for freedom, for reprieve, Florion withdraws into his personal nightmares, but even there Kenn is waiting for him, unseen, but ever present. <em> I can play this game forever.  </em></p><p>I am me. I am me. I am only me. I am in control. I am in control. I am—</p><p>Florion wants out. Florion wants to be free. To be himself. To be with people that he knows care about him. </p><p>And with her. He needs to make sure she forgives him. </p><p>He imagines things. He imagines not being alone anymore, making love to her, staying by her side. He imagines friendship, companionship and love. He wants to say so many things, and to never, ever say the others, yet Kenn won’t let him. It’s unending torture. </p><p>But Florion is so unbelievably stubborn that, in the end, he devises a plan, and negotiates a deal. <em> Or is it me who allowed you to think so? </em> “I am complete without you. I am me. But you are not complete without me. You need me to be whole.” To this, his god is silent. Mayhaps, this is his only weak spot. “I will bring them out. But none of <em> you </em> will follow. And you will give me something else. One more seed. And one more year.”</p><p>Miraculously, Kenn keeps his end of the bargain, with an ominous promise. <em> Soon, you will understand. Get to know this form of her, and you will understand. You will want the same. You will want them all dead. </em> </p><p>He keeps on playing the game for a while longer. Seeing how much pleasure it brings her, Florion accepts it somewhat because his limbs, at least, are not being puppeteered, but he wants the real thing more. Kenn doesn’t. Kenn puts words in his mouth again. Words about how he is selfish, implying he’s ungrateful. Words meant to scare her, to entice her to stay here, for her to wish for Florion to stay here. </p><p><em> I’ll hurt you. You know that, don’t you? </em>This last one is addressed to him more than it is to her. Mortal bodies are fragile and weak. </p><p>“I would not hurt her. I would be gentle and slow, and whisper soothing words to her. We’d make it work. She’s never been with a man, I want to be the first.” <em> I am the first. </em>“You are not real out there. And what you say is real, isn’t. She is not this woman you speak of. She is only Aoife.”</p><p><em> I might forget you. </em>Florion’s heart bleeds. These words, he knows to be true. </p><p>Kenn plays the game, confusing him, confusing her, pushing them into a complicated tangle of lust, longing, and fear, until, almost without warning, Kenn pierces his mind and lets go. </p><p>While his memories bleed out, Florion is granted two minutes, only two minutes of absolute clarity, before his mind is cloudy again, before the truth escapes his grasp. The only thing that gives him solace and even some triumphant glee, is the fact that Aoife will not forget a single thing. Florion has enough time and presence of mind to think about it one last time before it’s over and done and he is dragged away: Kenn has no power over her; He is not able, no, not allowed, to erase her memories or to rearrange them; She is his master, and not the other way around.  </p><p>How many times had he remembered the truth? How many nights did it come back to him? But he will forget it again. He won’t wake up, he won’t retain any of it, he will forget again. He can feel this revelation slipping, too, he can feel…</p><p> </p><p>A drawn out rattling noise and an angry swing of a small leg, shaking the world around him. </p><p>Florion jerks awake. He remembers. </p><p>~*~</p><p>“Oh drat, I’m sorry, my love… You told me to kick him if he snores, and… And I tried and missed and. Did I hit you hard?”</p><p>Ouhri sat up too, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the lamp Florion just lit. </p><p>“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s all fine, I… Aoife, I think I need to tell you something. I think I need to tell both of you something. In case it’s a true memory… Oh, gods...”</p><p>They shared a glass of water, and this time, unlike in the evening, only Florion was talking for a while. And with nearly each phrase he uttered, Aoife felt one emotion grow. One so very untypical for her lately.</p><p>Hate. She hated Kenn. She hated him. </p><p>“I heard you there. I heard these exact words. You, begging me to see that this isn’t real, isn’t you… Oh sweet mother of mercy, Florion, but if it’s true, this means that I… I... raped you!” There wasn’t a word in his language for this precise thing, so she had to say “plundered your body”, but he understood. </p><p>And he all but screamed, “No! It was me who raped you, Aoife, I...”</p><p>“No,” she shook her head stubbornly. “You did nothing of the sort, and I would know, I would...”</p><p>“Neither of you did anything of the sort,” Ouhri suddenly interjected, right after she realised what she just said, right before Florion could ask her about it. “If this memory is real, if it all really happened in this way, neither of you could have known or changed the course of events. Neither of you is at fault. It was him. He plundered both of you. He violated your mind, Flor, and he violated your body, Aoife, while cowardly framing him for it, hiding behind him, pretending to be him. You are… both of you in the water, while he is on the deck. You need to forgive each other.”</p><p>“But there is nothing to forgive,” muttered Florion. “Nothing.” He pulled her into an embrace. Aoife hoped she was deserving of it. </p><p>“What did you mean,” he whispered, “when you said you would know...” </p><p>Aoife closed her eyes and pulled away. And started to talk. </p><p>And she no longer needed complete darkness to do so. </p><p>He was called Son: his father, the Priory Father, did not care to give him a proper name, anything above a designation. Son raped her mother many years ago, and he boasted about it just before he tried to rape her. </p><p>Aoife talked and thought of how much she wanted him dead. No, she no longer felt like his miserable, pathetic life was punishment enough, that the lack of parental love, or any other kind of it, was punishment enough, because there were other women, there surely were and there probably will be. Women much less lucky than her.  </p><p>When he tried to rape her, she got away, and then she got on the Indomitable, and ended up here, and she would never be coming back. But other women were still there, with no one to protect them. If only there was a way of helping them. </p><p>Florion listened, patiently, not making a sound, but inside of him, she knew it, thunder was raging yet again. </p><p>“No more secrets,” she finally said. </p><p>“No more,” he echoed in a broken voice. She reached up to hold him and to douse the lightning flashing above a precipice. </p><p>“I think I know who this Priory Father is,” Ouhri suddenly spoke as they pulled him into the embrace, as well. “It’s just a guess, just a theory, I heard some things spoken among refugees, sailors and port workers. That some human has gotten treasures from us and used them to buy his way into your clergy. And that this human has been spreading rumours about us having weapons, so some jokingly thanked him. One refugee even said that this man alone was to thank for humans not attacking us because he allegedly went to your king and pleaded with him not to attack, and the king agreed with him. I assumed it happened not that long ago, but… After everything you’ve told me. I think… You say the Traveler mentioned that the author of the notes spread those exact rumours. You say that this Priory Father is rich, and he is old, and powerful, and he somehow had a copy of the notes in his possession although most of the others were destroyed. After you’d mentioned the notes and I saw a copy in a library in Kaina, I reread it, but this time I specifically noticed how he wanted, planned to bring preachers and missionaries to our lands and how, while in Beruza, he yearned to go back to a very specific place. This “jackson convent” you just mentioned, too. Aoife, what is the Priory Father’s name? His real name? Do you know?”</p><p>“It’s John,” Aoife said, her heart, a boulder. “His name is John.”</p><p>Ouhri leaned back into the pillows, sighing. </p><p>“You think it’s him? John the Lesser?”</p><p>“Yes. I think it’s him. I also think that sometimes jokes and rumours are more than just that. Human ships have been seen in our waters. And not just the Indomitable...”</p><p>“Ouhri,” Florion said, reaching out to touch him.</p><p>He shook his head. “Not by me personally. Not by us. But by many. And there’s more, because… I was thinking… What if this man was now dead. What if the king was dead. What if they both died, and some others took their place, some who did not believe what they believed about us? Because there was a rumour recently, too… That they were. That they died over a year ago and younger men took both their places, and that one of those men was just called <em> Filio</em>. Someone laughed at it, I remember. Someone said, haha, <em> kiu filio</em>?” </p><p>Whose son. Aoife’s jaw was clenched. </p><p>“And this rumour was completely unsubstantiated. But what if they did? What if someone else did take his place… What if it was. Well. This. <em> Man</em>,” the last word was spoken with substantial disgust.</p><p>There were his seven now, Florion said. There were Lideo’s cannons. No one was defenseless anymore. Yet, he said, he no longer understood who was wrong or right even within Rheske, or what’s to be done. All that mattered, he said, is that she'd forgiven him if that memory was true, and stayed with him, and that Ouhri was safe, and would come back to them. </p><p>“Avoid them, if you can help it, I beg of you. I beg of you...”</p><p>“I will, Flor.”</p><p>Is this why Maeve wanted them to hide in the Valley? But, if so, how could she have known the truth? Aoife feared sleep would not come back to her again, after so many revelations, and yet she fell back asleep even easier than before, in the middle this time, feeling, perhaps absurdly, safe and protected. </p><p>These were her friends, not just lovers. Friends, family. Two people she could trust unconditionally. As far as she knew, this was enough even if she could trust no one else now. </p><p> </p><p>In the morning, in the docks, they both hugged Ouhri and showered him with kisses, and assurances and even some admonitions. Florion just could not help it, she guessed. </p><p>“I will stay safe,” Ouhri said. “My God will keep me safe. But if there is anything I can uncover, anything that matters, I will bring the news to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Florion left instructions to come get them and bring them back through the mountain as soon as the Butterfly would appear on the horizon. But for now, they wanted nothing to do with the caretakers and that tunnel. They found a caravan headed into the Valley, one that’d brought olive oil and was now heading back and would pass by the vineyards, and joined it. It was half empty, so they were allowed to bring cargo with them. Aoife has procured a small loom, and a few boxes of thread, and an extra sewing kit, Florion got some old glassmithing instruments, just in case, and more ingredients for remedies and potions. They took some unread books from the dreamer house, too, and more clothes. Fully intending to stay in the Valley for as long as possible. </p><p>And simply… live. </p><p>When bored and mildly curious caravanners asked them of the nature of their relationship, they told the truth. </p><p>Husband and wife. </p><p>The road was long but pleasant and uneventful, through the mountain pass and a ravine and forest. </p><p>Nothing’s changed in the Valley. Even the weather stayed exactly the same as when they’d left. </p><p>And for a few weeks, their life was unmarred by any new occurrences. Until, one morning, Aoife found Nayiro crying in Hadrion’s arms, next to the stables. </p><p>Aoife was done trying to figure out the nature of the relationship these two had, so she asked no questions about it. </p><p>No one else was crying but Nayiro. </p><p>There was a huge body covered by bed linens, on the ground on the other side of the stable.  </p><p>“Hovar. He was the oldest,” Nayiro said about this lyssej that died in the night. “The patriarch. He fathered so many. We… We are giving him a proper funeral in half an hour.”</p><p>A proper funeral. </p><p>Aoife felt very sorry for his passing. But she was not looking forward to what would follow. And yet, at the same time, she was. Wanting to make sure. </p><p>The height of summer was here, and the house did not require heat at all. She did not even need to heat up bathwater that much: if one was to simply fill a bath and leave it untouched, the water would become warm enough to bathe in in hours. Whenever Aoife had to resort to heating it up, she’d use hardwood. </p><p>Not a single flamestone. At least not until she was certain. </p><p>“Are you sure?” Florion asked when she told him she’d go. </p><p>For weeks they were happy and untroubled, loving one another each night, working, helping around the vineyard, and talking of inconsequential things each day, trying their hardest to cling together as tight as possible, and even daring to make plans, daring to dream. </p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>If she was going somewhere, that meant he’d go, too. Always.</p><p>But she sensed he wanted to see what would happen, as well. Not like last time, not out of morbid curiosity about witnessing what exactly had happened to his father’s body, not out of wanting to protect both her and Ouhri.  </p><p>The procession ended up being, naturally, very small, and a stretcher was not an option, the beast was enormous. They heaved the body up into a cart, drawn by two of Hovar’s offspring, and set out up the slope slowly.</p><p>It took a while. Their final destination was not a cavern. </p><p>It was a clearing, quite far from all the places in the forest that Aoife and Florion had frequented on their walks, where trees around were denser, higher, and where the rock wall of the Mountain Mother was steep, hovering right behind. </p><p>But there was a stone bath in there, as well. Wide but not too deep, right in the ground, in the middle of the clearing, covered by a thick sheet of murky glass and by something that must have previously been a door to one of their many cellars.  </p><p>And there were tiny holes on the bottom of it, too. </p><p>But no one had flamestone pouches with them.</p><p>It wasn’t easy to transfer Hovar’s massive body into it. </p><p>It wasn’t easy for Aoife to just stand there, clinging to her beloved, pretending like she was fine, that there was no vortex of fear and rage within her.</p><p>She thought she would be able to look this time but, when the muscle tissue appeared, clearly visible under the surface of the liquid, Aoife turned away and, once more, embraced Florion, and hid her face in his chest, while he continued looking. Until it was over and done. </p><p>“You can look now.” Aoife turned. </p><p>“Thank you, Kenn,” one of the winegrowers said, smiling, and reaching down into the bath. </p><p>“Thank you, Guardian.”</p><p>Not flamestones. </p><p>On the bottom of the bath was something that looked like a large blob of gelatin, transparent, and, under its surface, was a fluffy creature. </p><p>A white kitten. It looked around two or three months old, living and breathing, and it opened its blue eyes to look around with curiosity. </p><p>One of the men broke the gelatinous membrane with ease, and got the kitten out, and wiped him clean, and kissed the tiny nose, and tucked him under his shirt. </p><p>Nayiro was no longer crying, she was grinning. </p><p>They talked about how they would need to feed the new worker of the vineyard as soon as possible, with some delicious buttermilk. They covered the stone bath with glass and wood.   </p><p>Florion and Aoife remained unmoving.</p><p>“Are you coming?”</p><p>Aoife shook her head. Florion hugged her tighter. </p><p>No idea what she expected to witness but, certainly, not this. </p><p>It did seem like this was, as Shyle put it, ‘a gift in return’. Moreover, it was life in exchange for death. Not a living sacrifice. Natural death. That lyssej died of old age. Very, very old age. </p><p>Aoife looked up. At Florion, then at the sky above them, then at the line of the trees, then at the rock wall behind them, and at the moss covering in. And, underneath it, she saw a tiny glimpse, a reflection. There, in the distance, in a gap between two trees just as the sun shone upon it. Hidden. </p><p>It felt like a prickle of recognition. And then it felt like a dozen. </p><p>She darted sideways. And she ran.</p><p>“Aoife, wait!” </p><p>She couldn’t, wouldn’t wait. Something was drawing her up there, to that exact place where she just saw a glimmer, that silvery gap in the overgrown blanket of green. Something inexplicably familiar, comforting. <em> Like home, like home, like home.  </em></p><p>Stopping just beside it, Aoife plunged her fingers into the growth and tugged. Of course, not a single liana or bush would budge, she was left with a handful of crushed leaves, but Aoife got another glimpse, a good one this time. It was metal. Smooth, and not an oddity of nature, no, it was an artificial surface. It appeared to be so similar to the metal they dug up at the vineyard, but this one was not buried, but overgrown instead, with moss so thick, other things already grew out of it. Once again, she forcefully moved some branches aside and scraped at it. How long would it take for a vertical sheet of metal to get covered in plants? Decades? Centuries? She did not know if it was possible at all.</p><p>Florion caught up with her and knelt beside her. She half expected him to ask why she ran so fast (she did not know the answer to this, as well), but instead he said, voice a little forlorn all of a sudden, “This place… I feel like I’ve been here before.”</p><p>“Me too!” Aoife exclaimed, unexpected desperation and urgency in her voice. “Look, there’s metal in there. It looks just like the sheet you’ve unearthed. We need to dig it out somehow.”</p><p>He didn’t argue. They tried their hands but, in the end, a couple of broken nails and more than a couple of scratches and wood splinters later, Florion stopped and held her back, too. </p><p>“Let’s go get some tools,” he offered. “And something for this.” Florion nodded down. Aoife looked. Her finger was bleeding but she didn’t care. In fact, she barely felt it. Heart, banging in her ears, sweat streaming down her neck. </p><p>“Who could have built it?” Because this was unmistakably something built, not something naturally occurring. And the letters, the words before, they were human. And she felt anger upon seeing them. This one elicited an entirely different reaction, one she could not even identify properly. </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“What do you think it could be?”</p><p>He shook his head feebly, meaning he probably had no idea as well, but he said nothing out loud. </p><p>They rushed back to the vineyard through the forest, down the slope, and in the shed loaded two burlap backpacks with every instrument that seemed appropriate, and more. Including garden shears, knives, scrapers Florion had used when plastering the walls of the house, a hatchet, a hammer, just in case. Aoife even looked appraisingly at a rake but, in the end, decided against it. </p><p>They hastily saddled Gadar and Jasmio and rode them instead of walking, to make it back faster. Aoife rode in front. The forest floor, as well as necessary maneuvering between the trees, made galloping impossible, but Aoife still urged Gadar into a trot for short stretches, whenever and wherever it was possible, impatient, setting the speed for Florion. She had no trouble finding the place again. The back of her neck tingled for some reason, her heart aflutter with unexplainable excitement. </p><p>They dismounted and left the lysseji to graze.  </p><p>He did not tell her that what she was doing was madness. Somehow, he understood. Along with this weird feeling of deja-vu, as intense as she’d never felt before, there was a logical reason to be curious. Just like the one they found in the vineyard, this was a sheet of metal located where no metal was supposed to be. Except this one stood vertically, perfectly straight, and seemed to be merged with the rock wall to boot, not just buried beneath the earth.</p><p>It took a while to cut off the surrounding shrubbery, but the weird moss came off very easily, in long, thick shreds, because, naturally it couldn’t have grown <em> into </em>the metal, right? </p><p>Peeling it off felt satisfying. Aoife saw the first letter after less than a minute. Not painted, but made of metal too, and melded into the surface, over it.</p><p>She stopped for a moment, because this was, unmistakably, once again, a letter of the human alphabet. One her dead name started with. A coincidence? A similar shape?   </p><p>“Look. This again.”</p><p>Florion squinted towards what she was pointing at. “Another human letter?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>So they moved to clean the moss around it. “It says <em> L E C T R</em>,” Aoife thought after a while. While Florion scraped at the sides of it, expanding the long word, she moved lower, because there were, unmistakably, more words. One, two, three, four, one beneath the other. </p><p>They stopped when it was clear, by the space around them, that these were full words maybe formed into a phrase?</p><p>But, once again, the letters were recognizable but the words weren’t. She only guessed they were connected by how they were situated, all together, one under the other, “carved” in a similar way. Each started with a capital letter. She did not know the meaning of a single one of these words. And while she struggled to understand them, to recall if they reminded her of some others, in either of the languages she spoke <em> (elect-ricity?)</em>, something else was slowly dawning on her, something….</p><p>“What does it say?” Florion asked impatiently, interrupting the flow of her confused, tangled thoughts. </p><p>“Uhm… I don’t understand the meaning, but the words are,” she squinted and attempted to pronounce them as if she were reading in the language of the aldamaari, in case Florion understood what they meant, “<b>Keihanshin Electronics Neural Network</b>.”  </p><p>Aoife only had to say it all out loud once for her earlier thoughts to finally catch up with her. Maybe the fact that the capital letters looked distinctively bigger than others, also played a part. She recalled the way Florion smiled at her and said in a teasing tone, <em> “Who would need to abbreviate it anyway? Not such a long name.” </em></p><p>But this was a long name. </p><p>“Kenn,” Aoife breathed out. What did it all mean, if anything at all? Was this their god’s full, true name? “If you take the first letter of each word… It’s K-E-N-N. Could this be a coincidence? Some sort of shrine?”</p><p>Florion stood, body frozen, gaze darting from her to the words. </p><p>“Anything is possible… Aoife, this metal. Does it not remind you of the metal stairs inside the Mountain Mother? You saw them when I took you to The Perch.”</p><p>Now that he mentioned it. </p><p>“A little. But that one was rougher, I think. And a bit dented. This isn’t.” </p><p>After a brief reflection Florion reached for a hammer. He stepped closer, swung it and banged the wall with considerable force. The expected sound was there, although oddly muffled. But no dent. </p><p>“Humans could not, would not make this,” Aoife said out loud, more to herself than to him. She needed to believe these words. She needed to… </p><p>Florion hit the wall with the hammer again. And again. And again. </p><p>His face was distorted, with something in between fury and thrill reflected upon it. Aoife stepped away but did not stop him. He did not stop himself, not until the hammer bent back, with the blunt end of it improbably flattened. Florion looked at the broken instrument and then at the wall. There were still no dents in the latter. </p><p>Not a single one. But another piece of disturbed and half-torn off moss has fallen down into the thicket while Florion was battling the metal, revealing another word lower and to the right of the already uncovered four. Florion saw it too, and they made quick work of plant life around it. This one was short, just four letters. An actual abbreviation, maybe?</p><p>“I know this one, it’s a word I recognize, it’s...” Aoife snapped her fingers. “It’s like… <em> koro</em>, <em> kerno.</em>” A center, a seed, a heart.</p><p>It made a little more sense here than “cargo” with “bay”, but still, not a lot of sense. Kenn’s heart? The heart of a god? Could it be behind this wall? Could there be a passage behind it, too, leading all throughout the mountain to the center of it, or to the other side? </p><p>With her mind unexpectedly clear, and working, bubbling, looking for answers, anything to cling to, Aoife suddenly remembered something else. Something that went past her ears when she first heard it, because at the time she’d been in a mindset that blocked idle conversation out. </p><p>In a memory almost as clear as day, Aoife even saw Ionas’ face as if he was sitting right next to her and smiling. Just the way he did while telling her, <em> “Makes you think, doesn’t it!” </em></p><p>He said he’d encountered many words that matched almost completely between two languages. She did, as well, but never thought about it before, not at length. Aoife’s always assumed that it was normal. But what if it wasn’t? She didn't even know why she was thinking the latter. </p><p>Core and koro. Wasn’t it weird how these sounded so similar? Almost identical. </p><p>Like the most common swear word both aldamaari and humans used, the <em> f-word</em>. </p><p>Like her birth name, and the name she chose from a book to give herself. A name Maeve spelled out loud for her, while she marveled at how similar, and yet differently, it sounded and looked. Why, why did she never— </p><p>“There might be something else there. We need to uncover the rest,” Aoife said.</p><p>“Agreed.”</p><p>One side of the metal wall was still partially shrouded by moss and other greenery, and they scraped it off too. Florion worked at the top while she cut and slashed level with his legs, wiping sweat off her brow from time to time, but only when it was flowing into her eyes. </p><p>“Stop!” he yelled all of a sudden, placing his hand on her shoulder. The former was shaking slightly. She lifted her head to see what alarmed him so.  </p><p>A circular, impossibly smooth and impossibly black stone, level with her chest, and so distinctive among all the silvery metal. </p><p>“It’s just like the one in Rheske,” Florion muttered. “Exactly like the one on the other side of the Mountain. Exactly like—”</p><p>Not hesitating for a single second, not stopping to think or understand why she was even doing it or why she felt the sudden urge to do it in the first place, Aoife rose and placed her open palm on it. </p><p>“No!” Florion dragged her away by the forearm, immediately and forcefully. “What are you doing, why… Why did you do this?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Aoife mumbled feverishly, and it was the truth. She had no idea. Just like she still had no idea why she felt so drawn to this place, why she put so much effort into uncovering it, why did she rush so when she was doing it, why were they both so nervous… </p><p>He did not have time to answer.</p><p>On the impossibly smooth surface of the stone, where a second ago was not a single crack, not a single scratch, two perfectly round holes appear. And from them, human speech sounded, making both of them flinch. </p><p>It said, “Access granted. Welcome back, Maria Alda.” In what she immediately recognized as Florion’s voice. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Come on, don't kill me, I've been scattering so many details throughout. :S </p><p>Hear me out on an unrelated issue please.<br/>I’ve made the mistake of attempting to write two WIPs simultaneously, and it’s somewhat vexing.<br/>One is just romance-barely-any-plot fanfiction that’s easy to write, and the other (which is this one) has, for instance, a 30 page spreadsheet attached, outlining all of the connections, and “questions that need answering”, and all those other details I care about even though there’s a chance no one else does. Either way, this one requires concentration, and that other thing, much less so.<br/>I like to be thorough, and I don’t want to botch the ending to this, so I’m taking a break from FatS to finish the other thing, and then come back here and give everything and everyone justice without rushing and darting back and forth.<br/>I promise a happy ending for everyone who deserves it, and robohornets into each orifice of everyone who doesn’t.<br/>I hope it won’t be too long.<br/>Right now I need some aspirin.<br/>Sorry, and thank you. See you soon.<br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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